The Horror Collection Onyx Edition
Author: Kevin J. Kennedy; Brian Hodge; Michael McBride; Elizabeth Massie; Jeffrey Thomas; Ronald Kelly; Mark Towse; Brian Moreland; Daemon Manx; Veronica Smith; Ryan Colley; Stephen Barnard
Date: 2026-01-01 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror
Description: Kennedy once again assembles an unparalleled lineup of today’s finest horror authors for the legendary The Horror Collection series. Within these pages lurk chilling explorations of addiction, nightmarish visions of AI gone wrong, and encounters with ghosts and demons that refuse to stay buried. From sinister carnivals and cursed houses to worlds unraveling in post-apocalyptic chaos, each story delivers a fresh descent into fear. Prepare for a collection that unsettles, thrills, and delights—often all at once.
Publisher: KJK Publishing

Kevin J. Kennedy

Presents

The Horror Collection

Onyx Edition

The Horror Collection Onyx Edition © 2026 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, 2025

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

Collected Christmas Horror Shorts 4

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

Werewolves

Ghosts

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

The Horror Collection: Turquoise Edition

The Horror Collection: Topaz Edition

The Horror Collection: Splatterpunk Dreams

The Horror Collection: Morte Edition

The Horror Collection: Crystal Edition

The Horror Collection: Amber Edition

The Horror Collection: Sinister Edition

The Horror Collection: Green Diamond Edition

The Horror Collection Hell Edition

The Horror Collection: Christmas Edition

The Horror Collection: Blood Red Edition

Horror Tales from Scotland

Horror Tales from Scotland II

Horror Tales from Wales

Horror Tales from England

Horror Tales from Ireland

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

The Clown by Kevin J. Kennedy

Nothing is Real by Kevin J. Kennedy

Foreword

I’m sitting down to write this foreword on the 29th of December 2025, thinking about what a year it has been. I released 15 books in 2025, and the majority of them spent some time as the top-selling book in their respective charts. Quite the feat for an independent publisher.

I feel grateful every day that I get to work in an industry I have loved from a young age, and it seems that my books are now finding their audience.

I have big plans for 2026. I’m not sure there will be quite as many books. I will aim for at least one per month. It’s a balance of finding the right stories for each book. If I increase my output too much, I would have to sacrifice quality, as there are only so many stories out there at any given time that I want to publish. I have no intention of choosing quantity over quality, but I have refined the way I do things over the years, and that has allowed me to get more done each month.

This year will have a focus on The Horror Collection series, as that seems to be everyone’s favourite. I will also be doing a few more books in the Classic Monsters series, as those are my guilty pleasures. Lastly, I will be trying to write more this year. I say that most years, but I am going to try to be more strict with myself.

I have almost finished writing the third book in the Halloween Land series, and I have made a good start on Nothing Is Real book two. I’d also like to write another short story collection, as I have always enjoyed doing those.

As always, things may change as I move forward, but that is my plan for the year ahead. Thank you for picking this one up. I hope you enjoy the stories inside as much as I did. Have a great 2026.

Kevin J. Kennedy

Author of Nothing is Real, Halloween Land & The Clown

Table of Contents

Creatures of Habit

By

Brian Moreland

Sawmill Road

By

Ronald Kelly

Donald Meets Arnold

By

Elizabeth Massie

Not at Night

By

Stephen Barnard

Viewer Discretion

By

Ryan Colley

Mile Marker 66.6

By

William F. Gray

The Juggling Jester’s Final Appearance

By

Michael Laimo

In the Age of Reptiles

By

Matthew Aaron Gorman

Just Outside Our Windows, Deep Inside Our Walls

By

Brian Hodge

The Ghost in the AI Machine

By

Viggy Parr Hampton

Firebug

By

Michael McBride

He Caught Things

By

Colin Leonard

Devlin’s Manse

By

Daemon Manx

Twenty Bucks Each or Fifty for Three

By

Veronica Smith

Golden Child

By

Mark Towse

The Donkey Lady

By

C. W. Stevenson

The Coming of the Storm

By

Jeffrey Thomas

Packages From India

By

R.J. Ren

Sacrifice the Night

By

Theresa Jacobs

Gods and Monsters

By

C L Raven

The Swarm

By

David Watkins

Creatures of Habit

By

Brian Moreland

As I stood outside in the frigid cold, drawing on a cigarette among a cluster of coworkers, our communal smoke clouding around us, it dawned on me how much I hate smoke breaks. None of these people were my friends. I didn’t enjoy listening to them gossip about others or moan about their problems. I had enough of my own crap to deal with. And during cold, rainy weather, I was miserable. If I didn’t need to feed the nicotine beast, I’d be inside the building where it was warm and dry. Maybe share a coffee in the breakroom with my nonsmoker friends, whom I actually liked hanging out with.

Here I was complaining. I used to be a positive person with a sunny outlook, but lately I’d been feeling drained, despondent. I was fed up with smoking cig after cig to the point my breathing felt asthmatic. My wife, Becky, calls them expensive cancer sticks. I spent a hefty chunk of my paychecks on Marlboro cartons. My habit of consuming over a pack a day was what we fought about most. She worried I was on the fast track to dying of lung cancer. When agitated, I’d clap back: Well, you drink too much wine. You don’t hear me telling you that you’re destroying your liver.

It’s not at all the same, she’d say in her defense. I always stop after a glass or two, and some nights I just drink water. You can’t even go an hour without smoking. Her eyes had teared up. Rob, if you don’t do something to help you quit, I’m afraid I’ll lose you.

Becky was right to worry over me. My health had spiraled downward over the past couple years. I no longer had the drive to go for a run. I was too thin because I hardly ever had an appetite. Coffee and cigarettes were my steady diet. And I’d developed these hoarse coughing fits that filled my throat with phlegm. Despite my lungs hurting and Becky’s well-intended concerns, I continued to escape to our back porch and fire up another Marlboro, coughing painfully as I smoked.

It wasn’t just at home where I was constantly reminded that this habit controlled my life. Everywhere I went_work, restaurants, bars, stores_smoking inside was prohibited. So I’d spent half my life standing outside some building, blowing smoke and too often having meaningless conversations with strangers who bummed cigarettes off me. If I were honest with myself, I’d admit I don’t even like smoking.

So why not quit?, my nonsmoker friends often asked. I’d tried a hundred times and failed. Chewed nicotine gum, worn patches, gone cold turkey, only to succumb to my cravings for a cigarette, again and again.

During the smoke break with my coworkers behind the office building, an odd little man ,showed up out of the blue. We fell quiet and gawked as the stranger approached our smoking circle. Wearing a yellow and purple plaid suit and Fedora hat, the dapper man looked like he’d stepped out of the 1940s. His gleaming eyes and confident grin reminded me of a car salesman.

Tipping his hat, he said, “Afternoon, folks. I’m Alfred P. Huxley, curer of bad habits.” With a magician’s flourish, he presented a fan of business cards, offered one to each of us. Beneath his printed name was the word hypnotist. “I can help you quit smoking forever with hypnosis. After just one session, I guar-an-tee you’ll never crave a cigarette again.”

“Are we on Impractical Jokers?” Todd from sales looked around. “Where’s the hidden video camera?”

The others laughed.

“I assure you, my good sir, this is not a prank,” Huxley said. “I’m seriously here to help you kick the habit.”

“But smoking relieves my stress,” said Peggy from accounting.

“My vape makes me feel good,” said Maria from HR. “I have no desire to give it up.”

“I enjoy my cigarettes too much to ever quit,” Todd said, breathing out smoke in the little man’s direction. “Buddy, take your quack business and silly costume somewhere else.”

Agreeing with Todd, my coworkers rudely tossed Huxley’s cards on the ground at his feet, along with their cigarette butts, and went back into the building.

Skeptical yet curious, I remained outside with the huckster in the plaid suit. I didn’t know if he was full of shit or a well-meaning oddball out of touch with reality, but his intentions seemed genuine. His kind demeanor put me at ease. I’d tried every method to break my habit but hypnosis, and I was desperate. “Can you really help me quit permanently?”

“Absolutely, mister. In one session. You’ll never look at cigarettes the same way again.”

“How much for your services?”

“My fee is very reasonable. Just twenty-five dollars.”

“If you can cure people from smoking, why charge so little?”

Huxley looked at me dead seriously. “Because I already have plenty of money. My mission is to save people from their addictions. I don’t want money to be a barrier that keeps someone from making positive changes.” He pointed to the lit cigarette in my hand. “That’s going to slowly suck the life out of you, if you continue to let it.”

I looked around for Becky’s car. “Did my wife put you up to this?”

“No, sir. I’m here on my own accord. You could even say I’m divinely sent.” He winked. “My appearance means you now stand at a fork in the road. On one path, you continue to harm your lungs with nicotine smoke. On the new path, you become liberated from your addiction. Whichever path you take, of course, is your choice.”

I laughed. “That sounds like Morpheus telling Neo to choose between the red pill and blue pill.”

He nodded. “That’s an apt metaphor, yes indeed.”

As I contemplated his offer, he said, “Ask yourself: what would life be like without the need for cigarettes?”

Pocketing Huxley’s card, I said, “I’ll think it over.”

“My office is always open, anytime, day or night.” The little man in the yellow plaid suit tipped his purple hat then walked away.

***

That night during dinner, I talked it over with Becky. Her eyes lit up when I mentioned the quirky hypnotist who’d claimed to offer a cure for smoking.

“I’ve heard of him.” While pouring herself a third glass of wine, Becky said, “A teacher I work with did a session with Alfred Huxley to stop overeating and lose weight. He worked wonders. She lost fifty pounds and eats healthy now. She looks fantastic and seems so much happier.”

“Well, I have my doubts. I’ve been smoking nonstop for more than half my life. This guy claims he can break my habit just like that.” I snapped my fingers.

Becky reached across the table, put her hand on mine. “What if he can help you? It’s worth a try, Rob. Please go see him, for me … and most importantly, for your health. The sooner you quit smoking, the better.”

I nodded in agreement.

Huxley answered his phone on the first ring. I introduced myself and told him I was ready to hire him for a session.

“You’ll be glad you did, Rob,” he said exuberantly. “You can come to my office this evening, if you like.”

***

Feeling anxious, I chain-smoked the entire drive across town.

When I arrived at an office attached to a quaint, white clapboard house, Huxley answered the door dressed in a dark purple plaid suit. No Fedora this time. His head was mostly bald with light gray hair around the sides and back. He stood at least a foot shorter than me, slim, small in stature but large in self-assurance. His eyes gleamed like he had a secret he was itching to tell.

“I’m so glad you came, Rob. Right this way.” He led me into a sparse room with two plush chairs facing one another. On a table beside one chair stood a metronome, like the clicking device Becky used while playing piano. Also on the table was a small remote control.

Two of the wood-paneled walls were completely bare. A third wall was hidden behind plum curtains. I wondered what was beyond them. Another room? A sliding glass door to his backyard? The fourth wall had a framed certificate from Awakening Institute of Hypnotherapy: Alfred P. Huxley, graduate 2010. Beside the man’s credentials hung a portrait of an attractive woman in her fifties posing outdoors with a lake behind her.

Having noticed the wedding band on Huxley’s hand, I asked, “Is that your wife?”

He looked longingly at the woman’s smiling face. “Jeanette was my soulmate. We were married for almost twenty-five years. But she became ill and I lost her much too soon.”

Not wanting to pry, I simply nodded.

“Shall we get started?” Huxley directed me to one of the chairs.

Nervous and self-conscious, I sat down in the soft cushioned seat and laid my arms on the velvety armrests. “To be honest, I have doubts that hypnosis will make a difference.”

“Trust me, Rob. The new method I use is a breakthrough in battling addiction,” Huxley promised as he sat in the chair opposite me. “My success rate with smokers, in particular, is ninety-nine percent.”

I wondered about the one percent who’d failed and feared that would be me. After many failed attempts to give up bad habits, I felt like a lost cause.

“Before we begin,” Huxley said, “it’s important that you shed your worries and relax. Breathe like me. Take a long, deep breath. In slowly … and out slowly.”

Matching him, I inhaled for ten seconds, then exhaled the same count. After a few drawn-out breaths, my nerves began to relax a little. As we continued to breathe together, I noticed Huxley’s eyes were bright blue. Angelic. Mesmerizing. His demeanor seemed too warm, too friendly, too eager for me to give my power over to him.

An icy chill creeped into my body, spreading goosebumps across my skin. I began to question if his intentions were really to help me or serve himself. What if the picture of his wife was fake, his loss of her a lie to get me to lower my guard? I imagined him as a carnival barker calling me to enter his funhouse of horrors. Step right this way, folks! Explore the dark and winding passages of Rob’s mind. You’ll scream at every twist and turn through the halls of madness!

The inside of my head became an echo chamber of my voices:

What if he’s a psychopath adept at mind control?

What if he lured me here with a sinister motive, and as soon he has me under his hypnotic spell, he intends to fuck with my mind?

He might physically torture me for his sick pleasure.

You’re being ridiculous, spoke Becky’s voice. This little man couldn’t hurt a flea. And if he tried to harm you, you could snap him in two.

Not if he turns my mind to mush and my body to jelly.

His gaze fixed on me, Huxley said, “With each breath, notice your body relaxing, deeper … and deeper…”

Despite feeling myself sinking deeper into the cushions of my chair, another wave of chills spread across my skin. My heartbeat raced. My arms trembled. I considered getting up and leaving. But conflicting thoughts held me in place. I recalled how hopeful Becky had been that this session with Mr. Huxley might cure me. I desperately wanted to be free of my addiction, not just for myself, but for my wife’s benefit as well.

“Your head is probably noisy with thoughts,” Huxley said in a soothing voice. “It’s normal to have monkey chatter.”

“To be honest, I’m wrestling with whether or not I can trust being hypnotized.”

“I understand. It’s not easy to relinquish control completely.”

“Why do you hypnotize people in hopes to cure them? If not for money, then what’s in it for you?”

Across from me, Huxley’s expression turned solemn. His moist eyes gazed at the woman’s framed portrait on the wall. “For many years of my marriage, my wife battled with alcohol addiction. Jeanette tried every possible way to stop drinking, but nothing worked for very long. She kept falling off the wagon. I did my best to support her, but back then I didn’t know how to help cure her. All I could do was love her and pray she’d find the strength to overcome her addiction. Her drinking only got worse, and in the end, she died of cirrhosis of the liver.”

I thought of Becky drinking wine each night, sometimes two to three glasses. Some nights, if she was depressed or stressed, she drank a whole bottle. She lied to herself that she always stopped at two, just like I used to lie to myself when I’d thought I had my smoking under control.

“I’m sorry about your wife’s passing,” I said.

Huxley nodded, still staring at her photograph on the wall beside his hypnosis certificate. “Jeanette is the reason I’ve devoted my life to this work. After her funeral, I was so angry because I believed her untimely death was preventable. At her grave, I promised her I would find a way to help others beat their addictions. I explored many methods. When I discovered Awakening Institute, their hypnotists opened my eyes to a whole new way of seeing things.” He turned his attention back on me. “While it is my duty to help you free yourself from your addiction, as a matter of ethics, I must also warn you, Rob… Once you see the true cause of your cravings to smoke cigarettes, you can never unsee it. Now, are you ready to cross over the threshold and discover a new, empowered you?”

I reflected on my struggles with smoking, my fights with Becky over my declining health and harming hers with second-hand smoke. Whatever Huxley was about to show me, I was as ready as I’d ever be. “All right,” I said, “let’s do this.”

“Wonderful.” He turned on the metronome, and it began to play a steady rhythm of beats. “Now, close your eyes and silently begin to count backwards from one hundred. See each number appear briefly in your mind then disappear.”

100 … 99 … 98 …

As I mentally counted in reverse, Huxley spoke just above a whisper, “As you keep counting down … go EVEN DEEPER into a trance. Let ALLLL thoughts drift away, like grains of sand blowing down a beach. Hear the ocean’s tides rolling softly over the shore. Feel the gentle waves washing over you.”

By the time I reached 90, the numbers became blurry and I lost track of counting. As he guided my mind through a dreamlike vision, my fears dissipated and I felt calm, deeply relaxed, like after smoking a joint with Becky and just chilling beside her on the couch, my head in a mellow haze.

“You’re doing wonderfully, Rob. Right now, we are at the threshold between your old reality and a new one. When I take you fully through the doorway, your mind will awaken to the truth about your cigarette dependence—the needless act of lighting up and inhaling tobacco smoke into your lungs. Since your superconscious mind knows what’s in your highest good, allow your superconscious to work with your subconscious to recall a memory you need to see…”

My heavy eyelids remained closed as I imagined a film projecting a memory onto a screen: My doctor was consulting me and Becky. He showed us preserved black lungs that had been surgically removed from cadavers of cancer victims. Smokers’ lungs. As my doctor’s lips moved silently in the memory movie, Huxley matched what the doctor had said, word for word, “If you don’t stop smoking right away, your lungs will become this black and spotted. Have a look inside.”

My point of view shifted from seeing myself in the vision to being in my body in the doctor’s office, sitting beside Becky. I was naked from the waist up. The memory veered to a nightmarish scene as the doctor dug his fingers into my chest and opened my rib cage like cabinet doors made of flesh and bones. My pumping heart and respiratory organs became exposed. A visceral gray fungus coated every visible organ inside my chest. My black-gray, marbled lungs looked like raw steaks that had spoiled. As if I were an anatomical mannequin, the doctor pulled out my cancerous lungs and placed the viscous organs in my hands. I cringed at the sticky, spongy texture, the mucus dripping onto my fingers.

My heart beat faster. I began to hyperventilate.

“You’re doing fine, Rob. Keep breathing, deep into your belly. Disassociate from the vision and allow it to shrink away from you.” The horrific doctor’s office scene drifted far away into dark space, growing smaller and smaller, until the scene was so tiny it vanished.

Huxley took me through the slow breathing process again, and this time I found myself relaxing deeper, drifting near a dark precipice, then he said, “Sleep!” and my vision faded to a black void.

My only awareness was of hearing the metronome’s steady tick … tick … tick…

“When you open your eyes, Rob, you’ll be in a deep, very relaxing trance, and yet fully aware. At your own comfortable pace, you may open your eyes.”

My body felt boneless, like I was made of Jell-O. Light cracked the darkness in front of me. I slowly blinked my eyes open. Blurry wood-paneled walls took shape around me. Purple curtains to my left.

Huxley was still seated across from me, smiling with bright eyes. “Welcome to your new reality, Rob. You’re still entranced, but awakened to a dimension very few people have the ability to see. Notice anything different?”

My eyesight sharpened. I reeled in my chair. There were several hanging cords attached to my arms and shoulders, like puppet strings. Only these were inches-thick, spotted black in some places, transparent in others, revealing that they were hollow. A cluster of these tubular cords were fastened to my chest. They went through the material of my shirt, and I felt them hooked deep into my skin, between my ribs.

“What the fuck?” My heart pumped like a piston. Hyperventilating, I tried to get up but could do little more than shift around in my chair.

“Stay calm,” Huxley urged. “You’re in a safe space to witness your addiction in its true form.”

“What did you hook up to my body?” I squirmed with panic, jostling the marionette cords.

“I didn’t do this, Rob. You did, the moment you smoked your first cigarette. That’s when this thing latched onto you and began to feed.”

“What latched onto me?”

“Look up.”

I tilted my head towards the ceiling. All the cords linked to my body were attached to an enormous floating mass_a ghostly jellyfish with long tentacles.

“What the hell is that?”

Spots of gray speckled its coal-black outer membrane, resembling damaged smokers’ lungs. The umbrella-shaped mass was over eight feet in diameter. The ceiling’s light filtered through the gelatinous creature’s partially transparent body. A ring of smaller, undulating feelers dangled around its tubular tentacles. With each breath I breathed, the jellyfish seemed to expand and contract.

“What is that thing?” I asked.

“We don’t know its origin yet,” Huxley said, staring in awe at the floating monstrosity. “Our best guess is, it is a multidimensional parasite.”

As its appendages sucked at my arms and chest, I immediately craved a cigarette.

I stared at Huxley in horror. “Please, tell me I’m hallucinating.”

“Your parasite is as real as you and me. And it’s just one of many in existence. The science team at Awakening Institute named them medusas, because they resemble giant Medusozoans, or sea jellies. They live in a dimension outside of most people’s awareness, yet the parasites’ feedings can affect their hosts in our physical, mental, and emotional realms.”

“What you’re saying sounds insane.”

“I understand, Rob. To the uninitiated, seeing a medusa parasite for the first time can shatter one’s sense of reality. But I think it’s important for us to know the truth behind our addictions. These creatures are extremely damaging to the human body. For a host, it takes a trained hypnotist leading you into a somnambulistic state to realize a medusa has hooked its feelers into you. Now that you see your smoking addiction in its parasitic form, I empower you to free yourself from it.”

“How?”

“You cut cords with it.” Huxley opened a drawer in the table beside him and pulled out a heavy-duty pair of garden shears. “Think of its feelers as hanging vines that need to be cut.” He nodded. “You can move your arms now.”

The strength and mobility in my upper body returned.

Huxley handed me the shears. “You now hold the power to cut yourself free from your parasite.”

The tentacles attached to my body began to shake. Above us, the black gelatinous puppet master tremored and made a warbling sound. From its fat tubes, I felt it sucking energy from me. My cravings ramped up a hundredfold. Jonesing for a cigarette, I got a bad case of the shakes. Out of habit, my twitching hand felt my shirt pocket for my pack of Marlboros. Another wave of panic rushed over me as I realized I’d left my smokes in the car.

“You’re craving a cigarette, but it’s your parasite that needs it, not you,” Huxley said. “Fight your urges, Rob. You have the shears now. Cut the cords.”

The creature above me shook as if going into withdrawals with me. More than a desperate need to smoke, I felt a strange bond with the hideous thing that I found difficult to break. Feelings of sadness and remorse flooded me, like it would be devastating for both of us if I severed ties.

How many years had this entity been attached to me? I thought back to when I was fourteen, hanging out with my skateboarder friends at the park. I had tried my first cigarette, mostly to fit in with my friends, to seem cool. In that pivotal moment, I must have formed another type of bond. From that point on, my habit had shaped my life, the friends who came and went. I even met Becky because we smoked cigs together at a party. After losing her grandfather to lung cancer, she quit smoking. I never had enough willpower to quit for good. Now, looking up at the creature attached to me, I understood why I’d gone from smoking a few cigarettes a week to two packs a day.

In my mind, Becky’s voice of reason said, Now that you know what’s destroying your health, you can quit smoking permanently.

Still, I struggled to release myself from the tethers of my puppet master. Over the years it must have become a part of me, formed my identity.

“If I cut cords with it, then who will I be?”

“I understand your resistance,” Huxley said. “You and your medusa have been dependent on one another for a very long time. Formed a symbiotic relationship. But this life-sucking leech will eventually use up the last of your life force and then move on to its next host.”

I trembled as his words sank in. “It’s killing me?”

“Yes, slowly and methodically. Every time you smoke cigarettes, your parasite is smoking you. If you let this go on, your medusa will eventually leech you to the point of contracting lung cancer.”

What he was telling me was so unbelievable, I stared at him, speechless.

“Perhaps, it’s best if you look into your future.” Huxley picked up a remote and pointed it at the curtained wall.

The curtains parted from the middle and slid open, revealing what lay on the other side: a hospital room. I was lying in a gurney, ashen and frail, linked to both medical tubes and those alien appendages of my blackened parasite. It hovered over my bed, its inflated mass pressed against the ceiling.

Becky, who was crying beside my withered body, held my hand. The sick me looked at her with rheumy eyes. Tears streamed from the corners dampening the gaunt cheeks. Moving a crack-lipped mouth, the bedridden me tried to say something to my wife, but all that came out was a hoarse, wheezy breath. The future me closed his eyes. The last of his life force rose out of his body in light particles, like the final embers of a spent cigarette, and drifted up the transparent tubes into the medusa. A beeping machine flatlined.

As the curtains closed on my last moment with Becky, tears filled my eyes. I stared at Huxley and he gave an encouraging nod. His conviction fueled me with a surge of willpower. Clutching the garden shears, I looked up at the giant black jellyfish. “I’m done feeding you.” I cut one of the cords on my right arm. There was an audible snip-squelch-gush. Nicotine-yellow fluid oozed out like sap and coagulated into thick globules that floated in the air around us. Smaller tubes that dangled from the creature’s mouth greedily sucked up globs.

I continued cutting tubes. With each severed feeler, the medusa warbled in what I took for cries of pain. Its quivering mass floated downward, hovered just above our heads. Its free tentacles formed a cage around our chairs.

“Keep cutting,” Huxley urged.

I hunched lower in my chair, grabbed hold of more tubes, and worked my clippers as if I were cutting vines.

Snip-squelch-gush… Snip-squelch-gush…

The cords attached to my arms and shoulders released. Hundreds of yellow globules floated towards the walls and ceiling. I went to work on the cluster of tubes fastened to my chest. With each cut of the shears, my lungs filled with fresh air, increasing my energy. My cravings reduced dramatically. Energized and excited, I cut the cords faster_snip, snip, snip, snip_weakening the parasite’s power over me. After I clipped the last appendage from my chest, the medusa floated across the room, its frantic tentacles squirming beneath its ghostly body. Its mouth feelers sucked up all the drifting globs of yellowish-brown blood into its head. Then, the apparition crossed through a wall. At last, my parasite was gone.

I sat back in my chair with an incredible, light sense of being. I cried tears of joy.

Huxley nodded with approval. “Well done, Rob. You’re a free man.”

“Will it come back?”

“That one, no. It’s gone forever. But you must never smoke another cigarette again, or another parasite will latch onto you.”

I sat upright in my chair. “Hell, no. I’m done with smoking.” This time, I felt a strong conviction to live the rest of my life without cigarettes.

Huxley smiled. “Then, we’re ready to complete our session. Now, close your eyes, and I’ll bring you out of your trance…”

***

When I arrived home after midnight, I was buzzing with energy.

Imagining a future without the need to smoke filled me with excitement. I hoped Becky waited up for me. I couldn’t wait to tell her about my experience with Mr. Huxley, how rejuvenated I felt. Most of the windows were dark except for one in the living room, which glowed with warm light. I parked my car in the garage and entered through the gloomy kitchen.

“Becky, I’m home. Are you awake?” I flipped on a light switch. On the breakfast table stood a Merlot bottle and red-stained glass. I picked up the bottle: empty.

My heart sank. Left alone to her own devices, she had drunk beyond her limit of two glasses. Rounding a corner, I stepped into the living room where a lamp was on. I came to a halt with my jaw dropped open.

Becky was asleep on the couch. Dozens of thin red tubes were attached to her arms and chest. At first glimpse, it looked like her arteries floated outside her upper body. My eyes followed the hollow vessels upward to where a floating gelatinous jellyfish pulsed against the ceiling. The medusa was much smaller than mine was, three feet in diameter, but no less menacing. Burgundy splotches covered its partially transparent tentacles and membraned body, as if it had drunk fluids from Becky while she drank.

“Honey, wake up.” I shook her arm, but she was passed out. She’d always been a lightweight: tipsy after two glasses, drowsy after four. Consuming a full bottle knocked her out like a tranquilizer. Her parasite continued to suck at her, slurping through its many straws, although only a few drops slid up the tubes.

The sight of the bulbous creature both disturbed and revolted me. I imagined like my parasite, this one had been latched onto Becky for years, but invisible. Why could I see it now? Had Huxley left me in a trance state?

As this hovering monstrosity fed off my wife, my body burned hot with anger. I ran into the garage to my wall of assorted tools and grabbed a long-handled pair of bolt cutters. Back in the living room, I attempted to cut the feelers attached to Becky’s chest. But it was like trying to cut holograms. The bolt cutters only snipped air. The medusa made no cries of pain or even reacted to my futile attempts to sever its ghostly appendages from my wife. She smacked her lips briefly but remained in her drunken coma.

Trembling, I backed away and dropped the bolt cutters. They were useless.

I called Huxley and he answered, sounding half asleep. “Hello?”

“It’s me, Rob!” I said in a pitched voice. “I need your help! My wife has a medusa attached to her too.”

“You can see it?” he asked.

“Almost as clear as I saw mine. Hers is smaller and stained the color of red wine. I tried cutting the damn thing loose, but it’s not solid, just an apparition. What do I do?”

“You can’t cut loose another person’s parasite, I’m afraid. Addiction is every person’s burden to bear themselves until they seek help. Only the host can free themselves in a hypnotic state with trained hypnotist.”

“But why can I can see hers? Am I still in a trance?”

“No, I brought you back to full consciousness. I told you our session would open your eyes to another reality. That’s what happens when you wake up to the truth. Like me, you can see the medusas’ dimension overlapped with ours.”

“I can’t bare living with this thing attached to my wife. It’s trying to drain her dry.”

“I’m sorry, Rob. The best you can do is convince her that she has a problem, then have her do a session with me.”

After Huxley and I ended our call, I helped Becky wake up enough to walk her to bed. The cords remained attached. The floating medusa dragged against the hallway ceiling and followed us into the bedroom.

***

The weeks that followed were surreal and unsettling, and yet, amazing too.

After explaining to Becky my miraculous healing through hypnosis, she was so happy she threw her arms around me and hugged me tight. Later, when I delicately told her she also had a parasite, an alcoholic one, she became defensive. She was in denial and resisted confronting the root cause of her overindulgence of alcohol.

“But I love wine,” she argued. “It’s one of my joys of living.”

“Honey, I’m not asking you to give up wine entirely. Just to cut cords with your parasite.”

But Becky couldn’t see her medusa drinking wine along with her like I could, sucking liquids up its tubes, the billowing mass of its body turning redder and more bloated with every drink.

She did notice positive changes in me. My outlook on life was optimistic. I felt young and vigorous again. I could breathe easily. My cough was gone. My stamina and drive skyrocketed. When I went jogging with Becky, I could keep up with her. I no longer had any desire for cigarettes. They disgusted me. Knowing what entity came attached with the cancer sticks, I was done with cigarettes forever.

The only setback was our intimacy in the bedroom. Seeing Becky’s parasite always attached to her and floating above our bed, I couldn’t get turned on for sex. That issue led to some honest pillow talk. Once I finally convinced Becky that she had a vice she needed to deal with for her wellbeing, she finally did a session with Huxley and cut her cords. When she returned home, the parasite was gone from her body. She cried happy tears in my arms, then we ran like young lovers into the bedroom and made love like we were on our honeymoon. Since we broke free from our addictions, Becky and I have been closer and happier than ever before.

As Huxley had warned, once you see the truth behind your addictions, you can never completely unsee it. If I indulged in my other vices, like reaching for a third powdered donut at breakfast, a white-powdered tentacle would drift down from the ceiling and threaten to attach itself. Staying mindful, disciplined, and feeding my desires in moderation kept the parasites at bay.

My awakened mind maintained the ability to see the world as two overlaid dimensions. Everywhere I went I noticed floating sea jellies of various colors attached to people: friends, family members, neighbors, and strangers. For extreme alcoholics, their parasites matched the color of cirrhosis-damaged livers. At bars and parties, I could see drinkers’ imbibed liquids sucking up partially transparent tentacles and swishing inside their parasites’ bulbous bodies. Drug addicts had fatter tubes that led up to sickly, pus-gray, membraned masses. Sugar addicts fed parasites that were covered in white crystals. The solid, flesh-colored medusas, according to Huxley, were latched onto sex addicts. People with many vices had a slew of bloated parasites that drifted above them like strings attached to multicolored balloons.

“You’ll see everyone’s medusas for a while,” Huxley told me. “They’ll eventually go back to being invisible, but you can see them anytime if you concentrate with intention.”

That proved true as I learned to control my second sight and returned to seeing people as normal, although I had insight into the burdens they carried. With a renewed sense of purpose, Becky and I quit our jobs. We enrolled in courses at Awakening Institute and learned how to guide people through a transformational process using hypnosis. Huxley mentored us until we were qualified to open our own practice and help people cut themselves free from their addictions.

Returning to my old workplace, I saw my former coworkers huddled together outside on their smoke break. They looked like tired marionettes with many cords attached to them. Where the tubes were transparent, smoke drifted up to a circle of swollen black medusas. The smoke swirled in the parasites’ hollow bodies.

The oblivious smokers looked my way as I approached.

“Wow, Rob, you look amazing,” said Peggy from accounting.

Todd from sales said to me, “Hey stranger, why don’t you light one up and join us, for old times sake?”

“No, thanks. I quit the habit for good.” With a knowing smile, I handed each man and woman my business card. “I invite you to come do a session with me. I guarantee you’ll never need to smoke again.”

The End

Sawmill Road

By

Ronald Kelly

Three miles south of Pikesville, down the rutted, dirt stretch of Sawmill Road, Scott Anderson pulled his car to the shoulder and sat there for a minute, letting the engine idle. Finally, he cut the ignition and stepped out. It was late afternoon, but for mid-spring it was balmy, nearly humid; the way it usually was in Tennessee at that time of year.

He circled the front of the Chevy Impala and leaned against the opposite fender. It gave him an unobstructed view of the scattering of ancient, rundown structures directly across the road. Just looking at them made him anxious. He took a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket, tapped one out, then lit it.

Scott wasn’t there five minutes before the sound of a vehicle came from the direction of town. It appeared over a rise; a white Dodge pickup hauling a zero-turn mower, a weed-eater, and a chainsaw on a flat-bed trailer. As it roared past, the man inside – beefy, bearded, and sporting an orange UT Volunteers ball cap – gave him a sideward glance. Immediately, the fellow’s eyes widened in recognition. Scott noticed that the placard on the side of the truck door read HATCHER’S YARD SERVICE / GOD GROWS IT, WE MOW IT. He couldn’t help but smile.

The truck ground to a halt twenty yards further on, sending a cloud of clay dust in the air. Then, slowly, it backed up. The driver hopped out, looking eighty pounds heavier than the last time Scott had seen him. But that had been, what? Twenty… twenty-five years ago?

“Scott?” the big man called. A big grin blossomed in his salt-and-pepper beard. “Scott Anderson, is that you?”

“One and the same. How’s it going, Chuck?”

Chuck Hatcher trotted the rest of the way – looking like a Clydesdale in overalls – and vigorously shook Scott’s hand. “Fine, hoss! Just fine. What brings you back to Pikesville? Are you on furlough?”

“No, I’m retired,” Scott told him, taking a long drag and expelling it through his nose. “Uncle Sam doesn’t need an old dog like me in his army anymore. I left the service five or six years ago.”

“Is that so?” Chuck followed his friend’s gaze, across the dirt road, to the collection of old buildings. Thicket grew high and wild between them – milkweed, kudzu, pink-headed thistle. Just seeing it all seemed to have the same adverse effect on him. He fumbled in his hip pocket and brought out a can of Grizzly. Chuck popped the lid and planted a pinch of tobacco in the pouch of his right cheek. “How’s your wife doing?”

“Terri? She’s fine. A couple more years of school-teaching and she’ll hang it up. Thought we might travel. You know, the RV thing. How’s Alma and the kids?”

Chuck laughed. “The kids ain’t kids anymore. Sue is a nurse practitioner and Billy; he’s starting his second year of diesel mechanic school. Alma always wanted him to be a doctor or lawyer or such, but he’s too much like his old man. Doesn’t have the brains it takes to fire a spark plug twice.”

Chuck joined his pal on the fender, causing the Chevy’s shocks to drop a couple inches. “You know, Tony’s still up north.”

Scott nodded. Funny how that name had popped into their heads at the same time. Tony DePrusso, the displaced boy from New Jersey whose father had moved down south to work at the Ford glass plant. Tony was the third member of the Pikesville Trio, as they called themselves back in 1975. “Is he still with that pharmaceutical company in Cincinnati?”

“I reckon so. Hell, I haven’t seen him in thirty years. It’s probably been longer for you.”

Scott nodded. Just stood there, smoking and staring across the road.

They remained like that for a few minutes more, immersed in their own thoughts, enduring a stretch of awkward silence they had never shared before. Then Chuck spoke.

“Do you remember that summer?”

“Yeah,” Scott replied. He exhaled and stared at the old sawmill through a blue haze of cigarette smoke. “Yeah… it’s hard not to.”

Chuck shuffled his boots nervously in the clay dust, his eyes glued to the rusty chain-link fence that surrounded the property and a buckshot sign that read HALCOMB’S MILL – HARDWOOD, CEDAR, & PINE. “You’re damn right about that,” was all the big man could say.

***

They had been twelve that summer – Scott, Chuck, and Tony – and it had been a hot one. The temps had hovered in the upper-eighties and nineties, even at night. But it had been a fun summer… up until early August.

They’d ridden their bikes from one end of Mangrum County to the other; from the old railroad bridge that bordered Swanson County, clear to where the forest grew darker and wilder at the Fear County line. There, they would go no further and turn back. They practically slept in the old tree house out back of Chuck’s double-wide, listening to Kiss, Peter Frampton, and K.C. and the Sunshine Band on that 8-track boom box that Tony had gotten for his birthday and flipping through old issues of Famous Monsters of Filmland magazine, as well a couple of Playboys that Scott had spirited away from his dad’s underwear drawer without him knowing.

It was also the summer they had been obsessed with Sawmill Road. Or, rather, the ghost that supposedly haunted that lonesome stretch of Mangrum County backroad.

Most ghost stories spring from small town folklore and, over time, become the stuff of local legend. And, boy, that one had been a doozy. As they had heard it told, back in the fall of 1958, the owner of Pikesville’s one and only sawmill, Chester Halcomb, had gotten into a hellacious fight with his wife one evening. Disgruntled, he had gotten sloppy-assed drunk at the local honky-tonk and, against his better judgment, decided to fire up the sawmill in the dead of night and start on an order of two-by-four pine planks he had scheduled for the following day. Chester had bought a pint of Jim Beam from the tavern and taken it with him, getting drunker and more unsteady with each swallow he took and each length of lumber he pushed against the big forty-eight-inch sawmill blade.

Finally, the alcohol had caught up with him… in a devastating way. He passed out as he split the last board to completion and, in the process, split himself as well. Chester Halcomb had fallen face first into the blade and the saw-teeth had grabbed hold of him, dragging him along the conveyor, cleaving him completely in two, from scalp to scrotum. If he had come to his senses long enough to scream, no one heard him. The sawmill was a far piece from town, and no one was privy to his gruesome fate until his workers arrived the following morning to find one half of him laying to the right of the cutting stand and the other to the left. Legend had it that the blade of the sawmill was still spinning when they got there, the gaps between its teeth caked with flesh, hair, and slivers of fine, white bone.

After that, the sawmill didn’t stay open for very long. Chester’s brother, Alfred, took over the running of it, but he didn’t have a head for business and shared his sibling’s appreciation of strong drink. But that wasn’t what shut the place down. Before long, accidents began to happen. The saw would crank up at the most unexpected times, during repairs and such, and, a time or two, workers claimed that a ghostly hand had shoved them from behind as they fed the lumber into the blade. Fingers and hands were lost, and they all knew it was only a matter of time before one of them ended up in the same shape as Ol’ Chester. By the spring of ’59, no one would set foot through the front gate, including Alfred himself, who had lost  the index finger and thumb on his right hand to the saw. The younger Halcomb claimed that his big brother had been the culprit of his misfortune; the sour stench of liquor and a familiar laugh coming from behind as he slipped – or was pushed – into the spinning blade.

They padlocked the gates after that, and no one would go near the place. Except for the Pikesville Trio. Hell, they had to go… just to find out for themselves.

It was the 3rd of August when they made their move. They told their parents that they were having a sleep-over at the treehouse, which was nothing out of the ordinary. They had eaten supper on the Hatcher’s back deck. Chuck’s dad had grilled hot dogs and they had them with Golden Flake potato chips – the brand with that freaky clown on the bag – and the homemade mustard that Chuck’s grandmother made; a mustard so hot that it burned your mouth going in and turned your asshole into a flaming inferno on the way out.

They horsed around in the treehouse until ten-thirty or so, waiting until the house lights had been off for a while. Then they quickly prepared for their journey. They took an old Army backpack that Tony’s dad had brought home from Nam and packed snacks they had bought from the 7-11 in town; two RC Colas, a Nehi Orange for Scott, Hostess Twinkies, three Slim Jims, and a pack of Pop Rocks, just for good measure.

“This is a major operation here,” Chuck had insisted. “We need to keep our energy and strength at the max!” Scott and Tony both knew the abundance of snacks was mainly because Chuck liked to eat and had a colon like a bottomless pit.

It was a quarter past eleven when they jumped on their bikes and headed south for Sawmill Road. There was a full moon in a clear sky that night and it lit the way when the street lights were left behind. They didn’t reach their destination until a little before midnight, mostly because Scott and Tony had to slow down a time or two for their buddy to catch up. Chuck had been a little on the chubby side back then, plus he was riding a girl’s bike that his dad had discovered at the local landfill. The boys had doctored its two-toned pink and purple frame with a can of Krylon electric blue, but there was absolutely nothing they could do about the missing bar between the handlebars and seat.

When they got there, they flipped the kickstands of their bikes and stood before the locked gate. The buildings that stood beyond the chain-link barrier were dark hulls and tall stacks of weathered lumber could be seen here and there; completely abandoned when the sawmill had closed sixteen years earlier.

A collective chill ran through them as a horned owl hooted nearby and a whippoorwill answered it somewhere in the distance. The night was sweltering, so any chill that they felt was due to a mixture of excitement and anticipation – and, yes, a generous helping of fear – and nothing more.

“So… are we going?” Tony asked. “Really?”

“Yeah, really!” Chuck sneered. “Are you going pussy on us or something?”

Tony glared at Chuck like he wanted to rip his head clean off; that Italian temper that he bragged about. “You’re the turd pumping pedals on a girl’s bike! You can break out the Barbies and Cabbage Patch dolls when you get back to your playhouse.”

“Cut it out, Moe and Curly,” Scott told them. “Come on. Let’s go.” Before anyone could protest any further, he jabbed his fingers into the gaps of the chain link fence and begin to scale it.

Soon, he was on the other side. Tony was right behind him, but it took a good twelve minutes for Chuck to do the up-and-over. “Get the lead outta your ass, fatso!” Tony yelled at him.

“I’m gonna whale the living tar outta you, piss-ant!” Chuck huffed as he straddled the top, caught his breath, and then began the trip down.

“Y’all hush, will you?” said Scott, lowering his voice.

“Why?” asked Tony. “There’s nobody around to hear us.”

When Chuck finally made it to the ground, they turned and stared at the long open building that housed the conveyor stand and the big saw at the end. They forgot their squabbling and slowly walked past tall stands of lumber in that direction.

“I heard that they had to bury Old Man Halcomb in two pine caskets,” Chuck said. “And that Mrs. Halcomb had to buy an extra plot in the Pineville Cemetery to bury him in.”

“Aw, that’s a bunch of crap,” Tony told him. “Why would they need two coffins? The undertaker could just, you know, sew the two halves together and put him in one box.”

“Well, that’s what I heard,” Chuck said with a glare.

Scott shucked a flashlight from his hip pocket and snapped it on. The pale, yellow beam illuminated the lumber yard and its main structure. “Get your lights out. We’ll split up.”

“What do you mean… split up?”

Scott rolled his eyes. “Three guys going in three different directions.”

“Yeah,” said Chuck. “Do the math.”

With their flashlights cutting pale pathways ahead of them, they parted ways.

They walked around and explored for fifteen minutes, before coming to the realization that the place wasn’t half as spooky as their imaginations made it out to be.

“There ain’t nothing worth seeing here,” Chuck called out. “Just some ol’ piles of lumber and some cedar logs that ain’t ever gonna be cut.”

“Big waste of a trip,” added Tony from near an old logging truck with four flat tires.

“Just keep looking around,” said Scott. “Might as well get the full tour.”

Scott entered the main building, which was really no more than a long, pitched roof on eight sturdy wooden supports. Beneath was the cutting table. It consisted of two individual platforms with rubber conveyor bands that  led to the big saw at the very end. He shone the beam of the flashlight on the circular blade. It was huge; a good four feet across. It was pitted and caked with rust, but the jagged teeth showed no sign of flesh and blood. He had to admit that he was disappointed that it wasn’t as gory as local legend made it out to be.

Suddenly, someone cried out in the darkness. It sounded like Chuck.

“Chuck! Are you okay?” he called. “Did you step on a snake or something?”

No answer. Just crickets chirring in the night.

Scott was about to leave the cutting table, when he saw a pale glow emerge around the corner of a high stack of old lumber. At first, he thought it was the beam of a flashlight, but it was much too bright and an eerie pale blue in color. What the hell is that? he thought to himself.

Then, abruptly, it came into full view.

Part of what he saw was Chuck. His friend’s face was stricken with fright; his eyes wide and his mouth slack and open. The front of Chuck’s shorts was dark where he had pissed himself in shock.

Chuck wasn’t alone. Something had him by the back of the neck, holding him suspended in mid-air. Chuck’s sneakers looked to be a good ten inches or so above the ground.

The thing that held Chuck was a man. Or, rather, half a man. He was tall and lanky, dressed in blood-splattered shirt and trousers. From his open chest beat half a heart; sluggish, torn, spurting luminescent blue blood. The man’s head had been ripped in half by jagged steel teeth. It sat, lopsided, on his splintered neck-bone, misshapen, dark brains seeping from the open cranium. The trauma had dislodged the man’s right eyeball. It hung from the open pit of its socket, dangling from the rubbery stalk of its optic nerve.

As the thing floated – not walked – toward the cutting shed, another glow emerged from the far side of the logging truck. Scott’s heart hammered with terror as the second half of the apparition appeared. It was just as gruesome as the first; its physical structure cut open and torn apart from its moorings by merciless, spinning steel. Organs glistened from exposed wounds and the half-crescent of the ghost’s lower jaw worked silently… as though attempting to say something. The arm of the man’s left half extended outward and, from his work-calloused hand, dangled the suspended form of Tony. His friend’s face was pale and trembling. His eyes rolled up into his head until only the whites were showing.

Scott didn’t know whether to rush to help his friends… or turn tail and run. He knew he couldn’t abandon them, though. The code of the Pikesville Trio didn’t work that way. They’d made that pack in private, laying the third blade of a Case pocketknife across their palms and sealing it with the ceremonious mingling of their blood, Indian-style.

The boy was starting toward the two halves of the floating apparition, when a godawful racket sounded behind him. He turned the beam of his flashlight upon the buzz saw. Gears and pullies, fused together with rust years ago, suddenly came to life. The machinery hitched a couple of times, then sent the saw blade spinning in a mottled orange blur. The jagged, one-inch teeth were unseen as the blade picked up speed, but he knew that they were there… hungry and horribly destructive.

As the dissected ghost approached the cutting table, carrying his captured friends in tow, Scott knew precisely what its intention was. Oh God! he thought. Oh God… what am I gonna do?

Then it came to him. An absurd notion that a grown man would have probably dismissed entirely… but one that seemed plausible to boy of twelve.

Scott took off running, heading toward the front gate that lay beyond the two halves of the glowing entity. As he moved, the two portions moved toward him, shifting inward, as if intending to block his way. Let me get past him, his thoughts pleaded. Please, let me get to the other side!

Scott poured on the speed, injecting a little Flash into his low-top Converse sneakers. Soon he was leaping between the two halves. As he passed, he felt a coldness like none he had ever experienced, even in the snowy months of February. He knew his pals were feeling that frigid sensation even more so than he was.

Then he was beyond the two converging halves, sprinting across sawdust-laden earth. He skidded to halt and turned just in time to see the twin apparitions join and become one.

Instantly, Chuck and Tony were released. They dropped to their knees and remained there for a moment, attempting to regain their bearings. When they did, they rose to their feet and joined Scott.

They stood there, petrified, wanting to escape the lumber yard in the worst way… but also captivated by what took place next.

The rusty machinery grew quiet, the blade of the saw was motionless, and the thing that stood before them slowly turned around.

They had never seen a photo of Chester Halcomb, but they knew that was who it was. The ugly wounds, the flesh and bone that had been ripped asunder; all had been restored. The middle-aged gentleman stood there, unsteady, looking addled and confused. He stared down at his glowing hands, then up at the three boys.

“I… I’m dead,” he said. It was a voice that they heard more in their heads, than in their ears.

Scott swallowed dryly and nodded. “Yeah.”

“But… what happened?”

“You were drunk,” Chuck explained. “Passed out… fell into…”

“The saw.” The poor man looked completely lost. “How long ago?”

“1958. Going on seventeen years.”

Grief threatened to overcome his narrow face. “My wife…”

“Works at the dollar store in town,” Tony told him. His voice was strangely flat, as though he hadn’t yet recovered from the shock of what had just happened.

“And my daughter?”

“She’s a registered nurse,” said Scott. “Works in a hospital in Dickson Springs. She’s married… has two kids.”

The lines of torment on Chester Halcomb’s face slowly softened, as though he had come to terms with what had taken place, both then and now. He stared at the three boys for a long moment. “I’m sorry,” was all that he said. Then the glow faded, and he was gone.

And the Pikesville Trio left that awful place, never to return.

That was, until today.

“Scott?”

He pulled his eyes away from Halcomb’s sawmill and looked over at his old friend. “Yeah?”

“Did it really happen? You know, we were just kids…”

The statement angered Scott for some reason; as though Chuck was trying to steal something away from him. Something horrible, yet precious.

“Do you have to ask that?” he snapped. “Of course, it did. Don’t you remember how cold you were days after that? How you couldn’t get rid of the goosebumps and it was nearly a hundred degrees in the sun? Don’t you remember those finger marks on the back of your neck that didn’t go away until October? Or how Tony changed? How he lost his swagger and wouldn’t hang out with us. Hell, he wouldn’t even talk to us. And his hair? You remember his hair.”

Chuck nodded and spat, sending a spray of tobacco juice into the dirt. A white streak had appeared in Tony’s jet-black hair almost overnight; one that went from his forehead, all the way to the nape of his neck. They remembered Tony’s parents taking him to doctors, trying to figure out what had happened. But the Pikesville Trio knew. They knew good and well what had caused it.

The two stood there for a long moment, then Chuck turned and shook Scott’s hand once again. “Well, partner, I’ve gotta run. I have two more yards to mow before I head home to supper.”

“Take care, Chuck,” Scott said. “I’m heading back to Chattanooga tonight. I probably won’t be seeing you again for a while.”

Chuck glanced back at the sawmill, then turned away. “No… at least not around here.”

Scott nodded and finished his cigarette as Chuck fired up his pickup and headed on down the road. A moment later, he was out of sight… but far from out of mind.

He tossed the butt of the Marlboro into the dust of Sawmill Road and ground it beneath the sole of his shoe. As he walked around the front of the car to the driver’s side, he heard something echo from across the road.

It was faint… but it almost sounded like the clank and grind of ancient machinery attempting to come to life.

Before the metallic whine of the buzz saw could reach his ears, Scott Anderson started his car, made a sharp turn in the roadway, and headed back toward town.

The End

Donald Meets Arnold

By

Elizabeth Massie

Donald traveled by wheelchair. Not because he was infirm or arthritic or legless, but because he was very fat.

He didn’t like to run. He didn’t like to walk. It made him wheeze, and wheezing was uncomfortable. He didn’t like to stand, because it made his hips hurt. He didn’t like the way his puffy feet felt when pressed to the ground, or the way his calves throbbed when asked to hold his body upright. And so, Donald wheeled down the streets of his city, powered not by muscular arms but by a push of the little toggle switch on the right arm of his chair.

Hmmmmm. Hmmmmmm.

Donald loved the electric sound.

Hmmmmm.

It sounded like what a big old grin would sound like – content, carefree, effortless. He liked passing the walkers and the joggers. How these people moved about made no sense to him, panting, blowing, their faces red and their hair plastered down with sweat. Donald didn’t feel haughty towards them, although he knew he could if he wanted to. Instead, he felt an odd little pity like one of those mild-mannered Greek gods must have felt when looking down from Mt. Olympus, or was it Mt. Fuji? Whatever. It was kind of sad, all those stupid people who believed the old “no pain no gain” lie. Life should be easy, but not everyone could understand that.

Hmmmmmmmmm.

Down the sidewalk from his apartment to the grocery store, pausing to push the button to stop the traffic and let him cross at the intersection.

Hmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Sliding across the street, glancing briefly at the bug-eyed faces pressed to windshields and the fingers death-gripping steering wheels. Silly people, they’re just going to park somewhere then huff and puff the rest of the way to wherever, Donald thought, and then he was back up on the sidewalk again.

He reached the grocery store, and slowed down in front of the large plate glass window so he could admire himself. A smart young man of twenty-four, crown of golden curls and brows of dark red. A tentative beard sprouting from his ample jowls and chins, something he wasn’t sure he’d keep but damn, didn’t he look like a cocky pirate or dashing cowboy with it? A green ball cap, worn backward like all young men did these days. A large and manly body that weighed - he wasn’t sure at this point - but somewhere around 550. Give or take a few pounds. Probably give. But handsome pounds they were, encased in a jaunty red t-shirt and blue, paisley print elastic-waist shorts. On the back of the chair was Donald’s backpack. It carried his important things – wallet, state identification card, bags of snacks, a six-pack cooler filled with a freezy pack and four Cokes. His slippered feet were propped on the steel footrests. Sneakers and hard soled shoes hurt his feet, and besides, he wasn’t walking so slippers worked just dandy.

“Hmmm,” said Donald, mimicking the sound of the chair. He grinned broadly and his eyes closed to slits. “Hmmmmm!”

Inside the store, people moved out of the way, let him get in front of them, let him have the last box of Frosted Flakes. He dropped a couple coins while paying the cashier and a mother directed her young daughter to chase after them because “the poor man, I mean this gentleman, would have a hard time, honey. He needs our help.” The little girl dutifully scraped the coins from beneath the candy display and handed them back to Donald with an expression of fear and awe. He thanked her, and thought, I hope she learns something from this. People will take care of you if you will only let them.

Another man in a wheelchair came through the store’s front door as Donald, grocery bag in lap, came out. The man was missing both legs. He studied Donald for the briefest second, then glared at Donald and moved on. Donald said, “Have a nice day!”

Back home, Donald put the groceries away and turned on the television. It was an old set, inherited from his father when the man had died two Junes ago. Donald had lived with his father his entire life, had cared for him as best he could after the old man’s stroke – feeding him, shaving him, trying to wash him though that job was especially unsavory. It wasn’t such a bad thing when the man died. Both of them were happier now as things stood. Dad had a nice spot in Riverview Cemetery and no more pain. Donald got the first floor apartment, his dad’s wheelchair, the television and other appliances, and $35,000 from his dad’s life insurance. Donald, who had already been heavy, had gained an additional two hundred pounds the first year after his dad’s death. He tried to apply for disability so when the money ran out he wouldn’t have to find some stupid job doing some stupid thing, but the people at the office didn’t find him disabled. No matter. He didn’t cuss at them or scream. He just said, “Thank you,” and left. He’d try again later, next year, when he was bigger and when the policies changed. Policies were always changing; you just had to keep your eye on the prize.

Dr. Phil was on, talking to a bunch of people who needed to lose weight. Donald changed the channel. Oprah was surprising some old woman with a home visit and makeover. He changed it again. Maury had teenaged girls in the faces of teenaged boys, demanding they pay child support. Donald left the channel there. These episodes always made him laugh. He jabbed the remote, bringing up the volume, and wheeled back into the kitchen.

Mmmmm. A box of oven fried chicken fingers for starters. Rice-a-Roni, three cans of pork and beans, and for dessert a Mrs. Smith’s deep-dish cherry pie, baked in the oven.

“You best be givin’ me child support, you beep beep beep!” squealed some girl with a voice shrill enough to peel a potato. The boy shouted something unintelligible, and then Maury said, “Now, Ricky, now Ricky, sit back down and let’s talk about this as reasonable…” The girl screamed and the audience roared. Donald, searching in the fridge for a snack to tide him over until the chicken tenders, rice, and pie were done, snickered. “I bet they hire those people to act like that. I bet I could do that, yellin’ and throwin’ chairs at other people. Maybe if I can’t get disability next year, I’ll hire myself out to the talk shows.”

When he was at last settled in his wheelchair in front of the set, two TV trays set with his steaming dinner and a half dozen cans of ice cold Coke, the phone rang.

“Man oh man,” he muttered around a bite of beans. He had forgotten to bring the cordless over from its cradle on the wall. Not that it mattered. Who was calling him? Telemarketers maybe, since he’d not signed up for “do not call.” His mom maybe, who’d divorced his father when Donald was eleven and now lived in Baltimore with her policeman husband and seven-year-old prissy-boy twins. Mom would call once a month whether she wanted to or not. Maybe it was the landlord to fuss because his rent was a couple days late. There was nobody else he could think of who might want to talk to him.

The phone rang twenty-seven times. Donald counted them. Twenty-seven times, twenty-three more times than it was supposed to before Donald’s voice mail should pick up. And then, suddenly, it then issued a long, excruciatingly shrill whistle that rattled the  TV trays and the fillings in Donald’s teeth. He howled and clamped his hands over his ears. The sound bore into his body, running a particularly strong current down his right leg then up again.

“Oww!”

The muscles in his leg twisted and coiled, as if trying to split the skin and escape.

“OOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWW!”

The phone went silent.

The currents in his leg faded, evaporated. Donald lowered his hands. He could see the hairs on his rounded knuckles, still upright like tiny spider legs pawing the air.

“What the hell was that?” he asked himself through chattering teeth. “I better get that phone checked.” He frowned at the phone as if daring it to whine again, slapped the hairs on his fingers back down, then jabbed the remote control. “Cops” was on one of the upper channels.

Bad boys bad boys, whatcha gonna do?

Donald guzzled one can of Coke without coming up for air, and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He’d forgotten a paper towel and he wasn’t going into the kitchen for one. It was strange, the phone ringing like that and the feeling that had run up and down his arms. Was a thunderstorm coming? Had that messed up the phone so it rang so long and so loudly? Had a charge passed through the room and into him, warning him of a big-ass storm on the way? If so, he’d have to unplug everything. If his Dad had taught him anything, it was that you had to unplug stuff before a thunderstorm.

He muted theTV and cocked his head toward the small living room window with its grime-stiffened sheers. He didn’t hear thunder, and he didn’t see any flashes of lightning.

“Hmmmmmmmm.”

He unmuted the television. A naked man with a mullet was leaping a chain link fence ahead of a cop and the man carrying the jostling camera. “Stop right there!” called the cop. The naked guy shouted something and then his toes caught in the top of the fence. He went down on his face in a tangle of weeds. Wham! Donald coughed laughter around a mouthful of chicken and beans.

The television sputtered, clicked off, then on, then off. Donald frowned and pulled the fork out of his mouth. “Now what…?”

And then Donald’s whole body lit up with electricity, humming, burring, chewing his nerves with metal teeth. The TV. emitted an abrupt, bone-jarring whine. “Owwweeee owwwweeee!” he cried. He bounced on his padded seat, trying to shake off the pain. “OWWWWWEEEEE!!”

A small tendril of smoke curled up from the television’s cable box like a curl of steam from a coffee cup. Tendrils of smoke rose from the rolls of flesh on his knees. The heat was intense, like cigarettes pressed to skin, and the sight of the smoke made it all the more terrifying.

“Whoooo!” Donald screamed. “Whoooooooo!” He spanked his knees, trying to extinguish the smoke. A dog in the apartment upstairs picked up a harmony with its own raspy whooooing. Donald pounded his knees harder, his mind reeling that this must be how those spontaneous human combustion victims on TNT started out. A few leakages of smoke and then poof…nothing but charcoal, some legs, and a pair of shoes. Make that slippers.

The TV. popped back on. The cops had the naked mullet-man in custody and he was sitting, bare butt and fuzzed-out crotch, on the back seat of the cruiser. The smoke from the cable box disappeared. The smoke from Donald’s knees dissipated and was gone. Donald panted and wiped his sweaty face. He looked closer at his knees…as close as he could get over the mound of belly. There were no holes, no blackened spots. Just touches of red, which were already fading. The pain was gone.

“Whooooo!” called the dog upstairs. “Whoooo-whooooo!”

“Shut up!” shouted Donald.

The dog whoooed once more then went quiet.

Of course there was something wrong in the apartment, some kind of ungrounded wires gone crazy. Maybe mice had chewed through cable insulation. He’d give the super a call first thing in the morning and demand he get it fixed.

But…but in truth, it had felt as if the currents had actually started within him, not from outside. It had felt like some kind of freaky generator inside his very own body had lit up and then jumped around the room, messing up the television. Making the phone squeal.

“That’s crazy,” Donald told himself. “Insane. You sound like  a mental case.”

He watched  TV with a sense of trepidation the rest of the evening, wondering at any moment if he was going to be shocked or burned. The last piece of pie was ruined because of the coppery taste of fear that lingered on his tongue. Yet, he swallowed it down and flipped through the channels again, looking for something entertaining. Most shows that came on at midnight were worthless – “Paid Programming” - men with shiny, taut facelifts selling cookery and young women telling other young women that their moisturizer would keep them ageless. Flip, flip, flip went the channels. Up and down between 2 and 71, which was as high as Donald’s cable package would allow. Every once in a while, the muscles in his right knee would twitch, and something would wriggle vaguely beneath the skin, but he told himself it was just reflexes. He was a sensitive person. Of course he would react to things like surging currents from ungrounded floor wires and distant thunderstorms.

He stopped on a reality hospital show. Some guy with a compound fracture of his leg lay moaning on a gurney as a young, pretty, yet dreadfully serious ER nurse held his hand and a Chinese doctor poked at the bloody bone.

“Am I going to lose my leg?” the victim asked through clamped teeth.

The nurse said something that sounded like, “Cells have their own intelligence. They’ll fight to stay alive if at all possible.”

“Oh, yeah, sure, cells have brains, where’d you go to nurse school?” muttered Donald. He dabbed at the crumbs left on his plate and stuck them into his mouth. Then he licked the last bit of stray cherry pie jelly from the TV. tray.

“You’re in good shape,” continued the nurse. “Hopefully the tissues of your leg will be able to survive long enough for Doctor Houng to make necessary surgical repairs.”

The doctor poked the wound again and the man screamed.

“Nasty!” Donald poked the remote control with the same fervor the doctor had poked the man’s leg. The television screen went black.

Donald’s bedtime ritual was simple. Brushing teeth over the tub. Sliding out of his clothes with a bit of huffing and puffing, then dumping them into the hamper. Easing himself onto and off of the toilet, though the wooden rim of the pot was cracked and pinched his buttocks every time, and the whole base rocked like a bridge in Los Angeles during a 6.9 on the Richter. He wasn’t sure how long the thing would hold up. It was too late in the evening to complain to the super about that. Tomorrow he’d phone Mr. Cooper, and also mention the damaged, ungrounded wires. Oh yeah, and pay his late rent. Lastly, Donald washed what he could reach with a wet cloth on a stick and wheeled himself to his bedroom. With gritted teeth, he scooted his bulk onto the sagging mattress.

“Ahhh!”

He lay, staring at the shifting patterns on the ceiling as passing cars tossed headlights through the partially drawn sheers on the window. Life was good, except for the cracked pot and the bad wiring. The moving patterns overhead became a t-bone steak, then a bushel of sweet potatoes, a slice of German chocolate cake, a bacon pizza.

Hmmmmmmm…

He slept.

He dreamed.

The nurse from the television emergency room stood on the sidewalk outside his apartment building, watching as he returned from somewhere in his whirring, humming chair. She was incredibly tall, perhaps nine or ten feet, and quite beautiful in her bright, white uniform. Donald cradled a quart of ice cream to his chest and already the ice cream was starting to leak onto his legs in thick, sticky puddles. He had to get it inside his apartment to the freezer before it was nothing but mush. The nurse smiled at him, and held out her hand as if she was going to open the door to the foyer for him. He said, “Thank you…” but then he saw that her hand held an enormous syringe. He gasped and let go of the toggle switch on his chair.

But the chair kept rolling, straight for the nurse and her syringe.

NOOOO! he tried to scream but his mouth would not open. The nurse’s mouth did open, though, and it was filled with glittery, gold shark’s teeth. The syringe dripped a dark, red fluid. “The doctor will see you now,” she hissed. The hand holding the syringe reached out for him as he rolled toward her. The syringe grew, doubling in size, tripling, its tip facing him like the tip of a lance in a jousting tournament. The red fluid oozed and spattered on the sidewalk.

The ice cream carton in Donald’s lap blew apart. The melted cream drained down between his legs in chilling rivulets.

“Ha!” cried the nurse as he reached her and she grabbed hold of the wheelchair’s arm. “It looks like you’ve wet your pants, you big baby!”

She snatched Donald up by the hair, lifting him free of the chair, and poised the red-tipped syringe at his right thigh. Donald’s legs churned at the air. His arms waved uselessly. “Now, this will hurt,” the nurse said. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She plunged the giant needle into Donald’s right thigh. White-hot pain surged through the leg down to the foot. The leg sizzled, smoked, and turned black like a barbecued ham hock.

Donald screamed, then, and the scream was audible.

It woke him up.

“Nooo, nooo!” he continued to squeal as the shadowed patterns on the ceiling revealed themselves to him, and the ticking of the clock on his nightstand registered in his brain. “Noooo…..?”

His mouth snapped shut and he dug at the corners with his thumb. His heart, deep within his chest, hammered wildly. His leg ached and he figured he’d twisted it during the nightmare. What a dream! It was more real than any he could remember having. In fact, it really felt like…

He reached beneath the sheets, panting and gasping. Damn damn damn!

He had indeed wet himself.

Just like the big baby the nurse had accused him of being. And this meant rolling out of bed, putting his pillow on the chair seat so as not to mess it up, steering into the bathroom, washing, changing the freakin’ sheets. At least an hour of sleep time, wasted! His fingers traced the width and breadth of the wet spot on the bed, as best he could reach. Then his fingers touched an odd mass where his right leg should be. A shriveled, wasted bit of flesh, cold as melted ice cream.

Donald jerked his hand back. Surely he was just feeling things like some people just see things. He was still groggy from the dream. That terrible dream…

“Just look at that,” came a voice from the darkness near the closet.

“Arg!” grunted Donald, and he lurched his massive body several inches across the mattress away from the sound. “What’s that? Who’s that? Don’t kill me, I don’t have any money!”

“Money, ha, did you hear that?” said the voice, as if addressing yet another person in the room. Oh, God! Thought Donald. How many were in his room? Who were they? Donald’s mind scrambled, trying to fill in the blanks. There were gangs in his city, sure, but they lived blocks away and never seemed to mess with people in wheelchairs. What about the other people in his apartment complex? Were they mad at him for some reason? No, certainly not! What about the man he’d smiled at in the grocery store, the man with no legs? Did he think Donald had slighted him somehow, and had come back with a buddy to put things right?

Donald licked his dried lips and surprised himself by saying, “You aren’t supposed to be in here! Go away!”

There was movement in the darkness, something that seemed quite small, the size of a dog, perhaps. But dogs didn’t talk. Maybe it was a dwarf. Did dwarfs rob and murder like everyone else? He thought they probably did.

“Wet yourself, did you?” came the voice. Then with an air of disgust, “Why should we be surprised?”

“Wha…?” That mysterious intruder knowing he’d had an accident in his own bed was almost as bad as the intruder having intruded in the first place. “I did not!”

“You can’t lie to us, we know you better than you think.”

Donald slid his hand slowly toward the nightstand and the little lamp sitting there. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see but his hand was determined to make that possible. “Who…are you?”

“My name…our name…is…oh, let’s just say Arnold.” The voice chuckled. “Arnold. Close enough, don’t you think? We just can’t bear the idea of retaining the name ‘Donald.’ Too many bad associations.”

Donald’s fingers touched the little flick-switch. He grit his teeth. He pressed the switch and with a soft click light flooded the lower half of the room.

That was all he needed to see what he’d been talking to. He grunted in fear and put his hands over his face. Go away, go away, go away! He listened, hoping it would go away, hoping he’d only been imagining and that wishing would help this beggar to ride.

One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen! he counted. His lips drew in between his teeth and his jaws clamped down around them, flinging bright sparks of pain behind his eyelids like little fireworks.

He opened his eyes again. He had not been imagining. He had not been dreaming. It had climbed onto the seat of his wheelchair and was staring at him from just three feet away with its bulging, pulpy eyes.

Donald could not breathe. He gulped at the air but nothing came into his lungs. Then the thing said, “Breathe already,” and Donald began to pump oxygen once more, deep gulps that almost made him choke.

The monster was about two and a half feet tall, a lumpy mass with two popped eyes near its bony crown, a slit that served as a mouth, two sets of scrabbly, spider-like fingers at the end of stubby arms, and two barely developed, flat feet. The flesh itself seemed not quite complete, an embryonic mixture of raw, pink tissue and thick, hairy skin.

“Go away!” squealed Donald.

“You sound like a girl.”

“I’ll kill you!” said Donald. He raised a knotted fist and shook it, though it shook more from fear than anger. “I’ll knock you to Kingdom Come!”

“Yeah, yeah,” said the monster. “Let’s have at it.” It hopped off the chair, striking the floor with a rather nasty, squishing sound, then stared up at the bed, its bugged eyes unblinking. “Come on, big boy, kill me.”

Donald threw back the covers, ready to clamber from the bed, grab the hammer off the top of the dresser, and smash the creature back to hell. Then he saw what had been beneath the covers, and he screamed again.

“See?” said the monster.

Most of Donald’s right leg was missing below the thigh. The odd mass he’d felt when reaching under the covers had been frayed remnants of muscle, ligaments, and tendons with patches of skin and a bit of ragged, protruding bone. There was no pain at the moment, as if his body had decided the loss of limb was enough to deal with at the moment without adding agony. Had someone drugged him and torn his leg off as he slept?

Donald pressed his fist nearly into his mouth to keep from throwing up. His whine whistled through the gaps in his teeth. Furious, impotent tears filled his eyes.

And at that moment, he knew what had happened. He stared, horrified, at the monster on the floor as it calmly explained what he’d just figured out.

“Cells have intelligence of their own,” it said, the kneecap forehead furrowing in emphasis. “We’ll try our best to survive, but damn, you make it nearly impossible. Look at you.”

Donald blustered, shook his fist. The tears flowed.

“Do you think,” continued the monster, “that if we had a choice we’d stay stuck to that worthless body of yours? Give us a break!” The fleshy, hairy fingers spread open in a gesture of so-be-it. “We’ve been plotting this for months. Some of us had hoped you’d come around, decide not to eat yourself to death, but no, not our Donald. So answer me, what was our choice?”

“To leave me,” Donald whimpered around his fist.

“Mmm,” said the monster. “Or rather, hmmmmmmmm, yes? Your favorite sound. Ah, but that sound made us sick!” The monster spit toward the bed, though no spit came out through the mouth-gash. “Some of us were anxious and didn’t want to wait until you went to sleep. Some fought to get away while you were gorging yourself in front of the television. You felt that, the firing synapses, the straining muscle, all that heat of passion and rage, right there inside you? A bit disorganized , but we got our act together once you climbed into bed. And look at us now! We’ve differentiated enough to survive on our own. We’re so much brighter than you, Donald.”

“How…how am I supposed to walk?”

“Walk?” The slit mouth opened in a ghastly, toothless grin. “Since when did you want to walk?”

“I might need to walk, somewhere, sometimes…”

“Yeah, well, tell it to the judge,” said the monster. It stretched its head high, looking as confident as a monster who’d once been a leg could look, then turned on its tiny heels and shambled to the bedroom door.

“Where are you going?”

“Not your problem.”

“You can’t leave me like this!”

”Not our problem.” The monster vanished into the black of the hallway. Donald
heard the front door open, then close.

He stared at the ragged remnants below his hip. He had a feeling the pain would come soon. And it would be worse than he thought he could imagine.

“Oh man oh man oh man oh man…” he hissed as he grasped for the wheelchair, pulled it close, and wrangled his mangled body onto the seat. It felt obscene, the empty space where his leg had been. He wheeled into the bathroom…hmmmmmmm. And covered his lap with a towel.

Donald looked up emergency medical clinics in the phone book. There had to be one that could send an ambulance for him, take him in, and give him something to stem the inevitable pain. He went for the first one on the list, Emergi-Meds, and jabbed the numbers in, messing up the first three times he tried because his hands were shaking.

Yes, said the operator at the clinic, they had buses they could send out for emergency cases. And just what was his emergency? He told her that his right leg had left his body, had just up and taken off. There was an unnaturally long silence, then the woman hung up on him. He called another clinic, this time mentioning only that he’d lost his leg a few hours ago and needed help. They agreed to send for him right away.

“Good,” said Donald. He wheeled to the front door, then back to the kitchen, up to the door, back to the kitchen. “Good, good, good, they’re coming. I’ll be fine. I’ll be fine.”

He clicked on the  TV then clicked it off again. He went to the fridge and opened the door. The cool air on his face was encouraging, hopeful. There was a half Boston crème pie on the top shelf, left over from yesterday. That would taste so good right now, so comforting. Mmmmmmm….

He picked up the pie. A searing pain shot through his hand, causing it to flex and cramp up violently. The pie flew into the air and crashed onto the dinette table, face down.

“Ahhh!” wailed Donald, staring at his hand.

And then the index finger popped free, dropped to the floor, and squirmed under the stove with a high-pitched, chittering sound.

The End

Not at Night

By

Stephen Barnard

Rachel Henderson threw a very nice dinner party indeed. She had prepared three wonderful courses, dressed the table beautifully, and even curated a playlist of soft blues to guide them through their meal. Mike Henderson had been just as impressive, keeping everyone’s drinks topped up and making sure they got exactly what they wanted: he had an extensive wine selection, a separate fridge full of beer, and a utility room cupboard stashed with spirit bottles. Whatever your poison, Mike had it.

Scott Carney was feeling pretty pleased with life, rocking back slightly at the Henderson dinner table. He had his fiancé Isla by his side, he had his boss directly opposite – who had, by the way, laughed at all his jokes – and he had a very pleasant buzz from the alcohol. He just needed to make sure he didn’t mess up this last hour and then get himself home, having built on his growing reputation as a good guy and a future stalwart of the company.

The boss was Edgar McIntyre, accompanied by his wife, Barbara. Mike and Scott worked for him: tonight’s host was the more senior man, having been with the firm for five years. Still, Scott was in the discussion – this dinner invite proved it. Mike and Rachel had been asked to host the dinner by the boss, and when they in return asked Mac was there anyone else he wanted to come along, it had been Scott’s name Mac had mentioned. He drank another finger of whisky. Yes, he was very pleased indeed.

Everyone settled back into their chairs because all the courses were done and the table cleared up, save for a couple of wooden boards of cheese and crackers, along with some grapes and celery, an addition which Scott didn’t fully understand. He didn’t know why that stuff belonged on a cheese board, but he went with it like it was natural. He pulled off a grape and popped it in his mouth.

‘You okay, babe?’ Isla asked at his shoulder.

He nodded. Yes, he was. He was just wondering whether Monday was too soon to go into Mac’s office and ask if there were other opportunities in the company with which to further himself.

Barbara excused herself to visit the bathroom; the Hendersons had a good-sized one on the ground floor. There was a slight pause in proceedings as they let her go. Mac – ever the old-fashioned gent – even stopped his conversation with Mike and stood while his wife left the room. Mike did the same. Scott, a little slow off the mark, shrugged off Isla’s arm and pushed himself up. Barbara tutted and shook her head, smiling. ‘Boys – there’s really no need!’

By the time Edgar McIntyre took his seat again and carried on talking to Mike about the next quarter’s projections, something had changed for Scott. He lowered himself into his chair and felt an unwelcome gurgle in his stomach. He hoped it wouldn’t make a noise and instinctively put a hand to it as if to warn it to be quiet. He was grateful when Rachel caught Isla’s eye and they both started to talk about children; Scott and Isla had a four-year-old daughter and the Hendersons had mentioned having an eight-year-old son. The boy hadn’t made an appearance however, but had been tucked away in his room since 7pm.

Is that not weird? Scott thought. Then added: forget that! What’s weird is your gut! There was definite pressure and movement in there which felt treacherous. Don’t tell me it was the grape! Jesus!

One thing was obvious: he too needed to go to the bathroom. His body was threatening to betray him if he didn’t give it some attention. His first thought was to hang on until Barbara returned; he could slip away while she retook her seat. But when she didn’t return inside a couple of minutes, Scott knew that he couldn’t wait any longer. Clenching had come into play.

The downstairs bathroom – a wet room with shower and toilet – was clearly not their only facility, not in a house this size. But when the Hendersons had welcomed them in and showed them the downstairs, Rachel had pointed out: there’s the bathroom… just don’t use the upstairs one, okay? Perhaps it was being renovated? Scott decided he would head to the downstairs convenience, hoping to pass Barbara in the hallway. If he didn’t, well, he could either linger outside the door like a creep, or investigate further, upstairs.

He saw his chance while Mike was standing by Edgar’s elbow, showing him his limited edition bottle of Macallan. Scott touched Isla’s shoulder. ‘I’ll just be a minute, babe. Little boys’ room.’

‘Okay.’ She stroked his arm as he went past. There were two ways out of the dining room. One led to the kitchen, which meant brushing against Mike and drawing attention to himself; the other was through the living room. He took that route, and was soon in the downstairs hallway. No Barbara heading back. The door to the bathroom was still engaged, which meant he’d need to head upstairs if he wanted a quick solution to his grumbling guts. There had to be another family bathroom. If not, he’d risk venturing towards a potential ensuite in the master bedroom. He just knew he had to go, and soon. He took the stairs two at a time.

The upstairs landing was in darkness; he groped around for a light and got one very quickly. It was tighter for space up there. Six closed doors fed off the narrow strip of hall carpet. He’d have to use an educated guess for his destination. He fancied the one opposite the top of the stairs to be the bathroom and tried the handle.

It wouldn’t budge. Scott apologised immediately, assuming it to be in use. But then he noticed the oddest thing. The door was locked, but from the outside. A sliding bolt had been fastened to the top of the door. Very much out of place inside the house, it was more the kind you’d see on a garden gate. He was about to undo it when another door creaked open.

He turned and saw a little boy in pyjamas, perhaps eight years old. Mike and Rachel’s son. ‘Hey,’ Scott offered. ‘Is this the bathroom, buddy?’

‘It is,’ the kid replied sleepily. ‘But I’m not allowed in there. Not at night.’

‘Well, I need to go, so I think it will be okay.’ He slid back the bolt and opened the door. It was a regular family bathroom, fully kitted out: no refurb putting it out of commission, and no ghoulish creature brought on by the darkness to scare a little boy. Before going in, Scott glanced around at the other doors. Apart from the one the boy had exited, all the others had similar bolts affixed to the top. All locked. Very strange. Maybe the kid trashes the place unsupervised? ‘You go back to bed,’ Scott said. ‘Sorry if I woke you.’ Then he slipped into the bathroom. He was happy to see a conventional lock inside and used it. If the kid wanted to cause a problem on the landing, Mike and Rachel could sort it, not him. He had something to attend to.

He did his business, rather more hurriedly than he thought possible. Once he’d given his body the green light, there was no stopping it. He cringed at the noises, and hope the boy had gone back to bed. Was it the shellfish? That had been the starter, and now – Scott suspected – the main culprit. He then thought about Barbara and her prolonged stay in the downstairs convenience. If the Hendersons had given the boss’s wife food poisoning, it wouldn’t be good for Mike. Maybe I do go and see Mac Monday morning after all.

He broke away from his dreams of promotion when the stench hit him. Chuckling to himself at his own disgustingness, he risked standing up, brought the roller blind up a couple of feet and opened the window wide. The cool blast of night air was welcome. If he remembered, he’d come back up later and close it before they left. He returned to his throne, and took another minute to finish. Feeling better, and more importantly, safer, he washed his hands, enjoying the breeze against his face. He wondered with a smile if Barbara was still in a bad way.

Scott left the bathroom. The boy was standing in front of the door. ‘You’re okay,’ he said, with a tone of surprise.

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ Scott wondered if the foul odour had seeped under the door and wrinkled the little boy’s nose. And the noises! He probably thought I was dying. ‘Just a little tummy trouble, but I’m all good now.’

‘Then I’ll have a pee-pee too,’ he said matter-of-factly, less drowsy than before and clearly not bothered about the stink that still lingered behind Scott.

They swapped places on the bathroom threshold, just as Scott heard Mike call his name, followed by feet pounding the stairs. Scott pulled the bathroom door to, so the kid could have his privacy, and then stood to attention on the landing like a naughty boy caught in the act.

Mike appeared at the top of the stairs, wide-eyed. ‘Scott, dude, there’s a bathroom downstairs.’

‘I know. It was occupied. I didn’t see a problem.’

‘No, I guess not.’ Mike was getting his breath back and managed a smile. It looked false to Scott, like the one you offer a client who’s dicked you about for an hour, but they’ve just that second signed.

‘Alright then,’ Scott said.

Mike pointed beyond Scott’s shoulder. ‘Just lock it again at the top, would you?’

‘In a sec: your son’s in there.’

Mike froze. Then his eyes flicked towards the door from which the boy had emerged. He gasped when he saw it open. He darted forward, nudged Scott to the side, and locked the bathroom door himself.

‘What the hell, Mike?’

Mike ignored him, but spoke at the door. ‘Ben, if everything’s okay, I want you to turn away from the window and face the door. Is everything okay?’ He was trying to sound reassuring but there was an urgency in his tone.

‘I can see the night-time, Daddy.’ The voice was quiet, almost awestruck.

‘Shit,’ Mike muttered, then looked up at Scott. ‘Did you...?’

‘I opened the blind and window, like this much.’ He brought his thumb and finger to within an inch of each other, miming his lie. ‘Is he going to try and get out?’

‘No. It’s… it’s what’s going to try and get in.’

‘What?’

Mike ignored him. ‘Ben! Come to the door and put your fingers on the handle!’

Scott glanced round, up and down the landing. ‘The locked doors?’

‘Just for the night-time, that’s all. There’s no longer a window in Ben’s room: I bricked it up.’ His focus was on the door handle. It wiggled slightly. ‘We just can’t have him look out into the darkness.’

Scott asked the obvious question.

Mike replied, standing tall, reaching towards the bolt above. ‘Because of what waits for him out there. Every night. Ben? Ben? Are you ready? I’m going to open the door.’

‘That’s good,’ the boy replied. ‘Because we want to play.’

Mike pulled his hand back and swore again, but only got one word out before the door handle was jerked with force. Then, with a scream of wood and a cascade of splinters, it ripped into the bathroom.

A face. Like the boy’s, but in so many ways not like the boy’s, appeared in the gap where the handle had been, big enough to show half a visage. ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’

‘What the fuck?’ Scott muttered.

Then Rachel could be heard on the stairs. ‘No, no, no, no!’

‘Stay down there, Rachel! Get the toolbox – under the stairs! Me and Scott have got this!’

‘We have?’ He flinched as the boy-thing eye-balled him. Blood-shot and red raw, yellowy pus in the corner. Scott backed away, towards the boy’s room, as little fingers – covered in scars from old cuts – started to pick at the jagged edges of the wood.

‘That’s it!’ Mike yelled at him. ‘Go into Ben’s room! There’s a large board behind his curtains. Fetch it!’ Then he jabbed at the groping digits of the boy-thing in the bathroom, tell it to get back.

Scott ran into the room and flicked on the light. It was every inch what one would expect of a little boys’ room. Bright furnishings and wallpaper; toys stacked haphazardly on every available surface; a bookcase displaying bold and exciting spines; a rug in the shape of a cartoon character. And at the far wall, floor to ceiling drapes decorated with moons and stars.

Scott ran over and pulled them open. As described, there was a large wooden board standing up behind the fabric. It looked the exact size of a door, just not as thick. There were inscriptions engraved into its surface – words that Scott surmised were Latin or some other dead language – and there were also a number of symbols and cruciforms scorched into the wood. He got his hands on it, curled his fingers around the back and lifted it. As he moved away he noticed what Mike had told him: the window of the boy’s bedroom had been completely bricked up.

As he got back on the landing, he assessed how things had developed. There were no longer attempts to make the doorhandle hole bigger. Instead, whatever was inside was hammering fists against the wood, causing the door to shake on its hinges. They still held, as did the fastened bolt at the top, but judging by the cracks appearing along the surface, it wouldn’t be for long.

The boy-thing was no longer talking, but Ben was. ‘It might be okay, Daddy! He says he just wants to play with us! Be part of the family! That would be okay, wouldn’t it?’

‘You be brave in there, Ben! Me and Mum are going to work this out!’

The banging stopped, and dried and scabbed lips appeared at the hole. ‘Is Mummy there?’ the boy-thing croaked. ‘I want to give her a kiss.’

Rachel was at the top of the stairs with a toolbox. She shrieked as a long and sore-riddled tongue protruded from the hole. She dropped the box on the top step and retreated, straight into Edgar McIntyre, halfway up. ‘What is this, Henderson?’

‘Just some family trouble, boss! Please take the women downstairs! Scott – hurry!’

Scott didn’t look at Mac, but brought the tall board to Mike. He helped him put it into place. It was door-shaped, but slightly bigger; it covered the door frame too – an exact fit. Mike pressed his hands against it to keep it in position. ‘First compartment in the box. Hammer and nails. Hurry!’

Scott did as he was told, but spoke as he gathered what was needed. ‘What about Ben?’

‘He won’t hurt his brother. It’s the rest of us that are in trouble!’

Brother. He handed Mike the hammer and nails. ‘What the hell is this?’

‘Just put your back against this thing, will you?’

Scott did as he was asked, but with a caveat. ‘You better tell me what’s going on here, or I’m getting Isla and leaving you to it!’ He glanced down the stairs. Mac had taken Rachel down; Barbara and Isla were also at the foot of the stairs, looking up in alarm.

Mike started hammering into the door frame, near to Scott’s head. Scott could also feel the pounding into his back as tiny but powerful fists tried to bash their way out. It meant he had to strain to hear what Mike was saying.

‘Ben had a brother, at least in the womb – a twin. But at the time Rachel was due, the second baby presented a danger to her.’ He dropped to hammer in nails in line with Scott’s waist. ‘The doctors couldn’t explain it; it was like it was scratching her to get out. Looking to dig its own exit. She had an emergency c-section.’

He was down by Scott’s shins, pounding more nails. Scott also thought the assault against the other side of the door was lessening. He shifted a little to the side so that Mike could get to the other edge of the wooden board.

He hammered and spoke. ‘Ben was delivered first, thank God. Then the midwives and doctors… well, they didn’t know what came next. They took it out of Rachel, squealed, cried out… one of the midwives cut the cord and whisked the thing away.’

He was back up, near to Scott’s chest. ‘They tended to Rachel and Ben, who were both fine, all things considered. Then the other midwife came back. They colluded a little, and then broke the news to us that our second child had died.’

He hammered one more into the top corner then stepped back. Scott did the same. The board was secure. ‘Only, it wasn’t a child – not really. We found that out over the next few years.’

‘It’s unbelievable,’ Scott muttered.

‘Not when you live with it every day.’

The board and the door behind it were still. Scott’s eyes skimmed across the religious iconography and had a notional idea about why this was working. ‘Was it like a demon or something?’

‘Or something. Yeah.’ Mike put a hand to the wood, as if feeling for tremors. ‘Ben? Are you still okay in there?’

‘Yes, Daddy. But he’s cross, and upset. It’s making me sad.’

‘Don’t be sad, kiddo. We’re here to look after you. Has he hurt you in any way? Where is he?’

‘I’m fine: no hurts on me. He’s just sitting in the bath but with no water.’

‘Alright…’ Rachel came up and grabbed Mike’s arm. ‘It’s alright,’ he repeated. ‘Ben’s fine,’ he reassured her. ‘We’ve been here before, remember? We just have to wait it out.’ They hugged.

Scott looked down the stairs. Edgar and Barbara had their coats on. The boss called up. ‘I don’t know what this is, Henderson, but Babs and I are leaving you to it. My office at 9am Monday morning, if you don’t mind!’

‘Sure, Mac!’ Mike called. ‘Sorry about this!’

They made for the door. Isla was holding onto the newel post, staring up at Scott. He shrugged. I don’t know. I haven’t got a fucking clue. He turned to their hosts, still in an embrace. ‘Is there anything else I can do?’

Mike glanced at him over Rachel’s shoulder. He looked exhausted and ten years older. ‘No, mate. That’s it for now. Thanks for helping with this.’

‘No problem.’ He didn’t want to remind Mike that he had probably helped start it. But then he saw an intensity in Mike’s eye that suggested that he hadn’t forgotten, and at some point there might be some blame attached. Just not now. ‘Do you want us to stay, or…’

‘No. You two go. We’ve got this. We’ve been here before.’

Rachel let go of her husband, perhaps to see Scott and Isla out, but she was stopped in her tracks when Ben’s voice came through the double thickness of the bathroom door. ‘He’s gone outside now…’

‘That’s great, kiddo!’ Mike called. ‘Can you close up the window and pull down the blind? Do you think you can do that?’

Rachel stared at Scott. ‘Did you open the window?’

‘I didn’t know, did I?’ How could I know that you have a demon son hanging around your house every night? He didn’t say anything like that, but waited for a verbal assault. It didn’t come. Ben’s voice drew her attention again.

‘Daddy? Mummy?’

They both replied in the affirmative and with their warm and endearing term of choice.

‘He’s still talking to me. He says I should go out the window with him.’

‘No!’ Mike shouted. ‘No, Ben – you definitely shouldn’t do that! We’ve talked about this before!’

‘He said I can fly, just like him.’

Rachel started yelling and tried to get her fingers behind the board, hoping to prise it off. That was hopeless, Scott knew; it would take a lot longer to remove it than it did to fix it in place.

Mike was doing his best to talk his son down. ‘That’s not possible, Ben! Just pull the blind down and don’t look at the window anymore!’

‘He just wants to play with me. With us.’

‘No, Ben! He wants to hurt Mummy and Daddy. You know this! Just let him go and face the door! Don’t look anywhere but the door!’

Rachel now had the hammer and was trying to use the claw to wrench out the nails her husband had only just forced in, but with no real success. Looking at it, Scott thought they’d probably have to take some kind of electric saw to the wood.

Mike put a hand on Rachel’s arm, stopping her. ‘We can’t. You know we can’t. Not until morning.’

‘But Ben!’ she wailed.

‘He’s a good boy. He’ll do as he’s told.’ And then to emphasise it, he addressed his son. ‘Ben, are you staring at the door? Is the blind down and  the window shut? Where are things at, kiddo?’

Ben’s voice was close, which was reassuring. ‘He’s still talking to me outside the window.’

‘Just don’t listen to what he says!’

A thought suddenly struck Scott. ‘Has your son never been out at night?’

‘No – not since he was a baby,’ Rachel muttered. She didn’t look in the mood for small talk.

Scott persevered. ‘But you two have, all the time. Why doesn’t this thing get you on the way to the pub, or on the way home from work?’

‘It’s complicated!’ Mike snapped. ‘It’s just when Ben looks into the night! Then it comes! But if we keep him away from windows…’

‘… and don’t fucking open them!’ There it was: the vitriol from Rachel.

Scott ignored it. ‘What will I see if I go into your garden and look up?’

Before he got an answer, Ben spoke again. ‘He says if I don’t go outside with him, he’s going to find another way in and…’

‘And what, Ben?’

‘I don’t really understand these words. Feast on your inners? Innards. That’s it.’

‘He can’t get in, Ben, only through open doors or windows. Are you able to close that window, kiddo?’

‘He says he’s going to eat you all up.’

‘We’re fine, honey!’ Rachel called, slapping a frustrated hand against the protective board. ‘You just need to stay away from him until we can get you out!’

Then Ben started crying. ‘He says he’s going to get you! He says the front door’s open!’ His voice became more distant as he moved back into the room. ‘And if I don’t fly with him he’s going to kill you!’

‘The front door’s not open, kiddo, it’s-’ Mike froze, then shot a glance at Scott. ‘Edgar!’ Before Scott could ascertain exactly what Mike was thinking, he blurted out: ‘Go and check!’

Scott had it now. He took off – rapid steps down the stairs.

Isla was at the bottom, waiting nervously for an update. ‘Babe-’

‘Mind out!’ he called, and slipped past her, into the hallway and across the wooden floor towards the door.

It was slightly ajar. In his haste, or maybe his frustration, Edgar hadn’t taken the care to close it properly. For a split-second Scott stared at it, expecting to see little scarred fingers creep around the edge. Then he shook the image away, lunged forward and slammed it shut.

A sudden notion struck him. An errant thought which he didn’t want, but was there anyway. It took root and became large. He opened the door again.

‘What are you doing?’ Isla asked.

There was nothing on the other side of the door but a driveway and the night air. ‘Keep the door shut,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

Then Scott went outside and closed the door firmly behind him.

He ran around the side of the house.

He hadn’t got the answer to his question about what he might see in the garden. He thought – no doubt foolishly – that he would go and find out for himself.

He hoped the gate to the rear of the house was just on a latch rather than locked. He tried the mechanism and it flipped up, unhampered. He pushed his way through.

An idea about Ben had struck Scott. He’d seen the boy, briefly, but not enough to get all the details. And then he’d seen a bloodshot eye at the hole, and scarred fingers. What he hadn’t seen was two boys – demoniacal or otherwise – at the same time.

Was this a psychological affliction? He wondered if the poor kid had a severe case of schizophrenia – he was no expert so had no idea about the possibilities – and had perhaps hurt himself as soon as he’d gone into the bathroom. Attacked that eye to make it bloodshot and angry. Had he previously sliced open fingers to bring about those scars? Had he picked and prodded at his tongue over time to create those sores?

Was this all in the boy’s head, and the Hendersons were actually a little bit nuts, feeding this affliction, like a version of – what was it called? – Munchausen syndrome by proxy?

Scott rounded the back corner of the house and skidded on the patio. He just about managed to keep his footing and looked up.

There was only one light on upstairs, illuminating the room in the centre, and casting a glow into the adjacent patch of night.

There was no demon boy hovering by the window, beckoning his twin out to join him. Just the thin, reedy whisper of a voice coming from the bathroom.

They’ve fucked him up, Scott thought. What a pair of bastards! ‘Ben!’ he called. ‘There’s no one out here! No evil twin! Don’t listen to whatever voice is telling you to do bad things! Stay in the bathroom!’ Until I can get the police out here…

He heard Isla’s voice on the driveway, calling for him. It didn’t matter that she’d ignored his instruction; there was no threat outside. ‘Back here, babe.’

He glanced at the gate to see if she was coming, and then back up at the bathroom window.

Ben Henderson was crouching on the sill, hands gripping the sides of the window frame.

‘Ben, no! Get back in there!’

The boy spoke, but not to Scott. Instead, he looked straight ahead into the empty air. ‘Do you promise to leave Mummy and Daddy alone if I play with you?’

Scott yelled at him again, and repositioned himself so he was directly under the window. Ben paused, as if receiving an answer, then spoke again. ‘And do you promise I can fly, just like you?’

Again, a pause, filled with more of Scott’s shouting, a creaking of the gate, and muffled thumping and calling from upstairs.

‘Okay then,’ Ben said, and pushed off into the cold, vacant night.

The boy hung there, like a still from a Peter Pan movie. His bare feet were moving like they were treading water in a swimming pool or pedalling an invisible bike. He stared out in front of him, looking a little desperate and scared. He reached out a hand.

That’s when Scott saw another one, extending out of the darkness, moving towards Ben’s.

He sensed Isla rather than saw her. Then she screamed – a jumble of his name and an unanswerable question.

Scott was still looking up. Ben, for the first time, looked down. And also, a few feet further away from the house, Scott saw the twin – naked, smeared with what looked like blood and filth – staring down at him.

This second child smiled.

Ben Henderson fell.

Scott braced himself; he was directly underneath. The kid was floating and then he was falling; half a second to grow huge and ungainly in his vision. He extended his arms and hoped for the best.

Ben slammed into Scott’s chest and upper arms. Scott felt a limb crash into his shoulder – two noises at the same time: a break for each of them. Ben’s head swung wildly and he was in danger of propelling himself out of Scott’s reach. Scott grabbed on, clutching unidentifiable body parts as the kid seemed contorted in his arms, mewling like an animal. Scott’s ankle went from underneath him – another snap – and he fell backwards, electric pain now running from his foot all the way up to his neck. His head cracked against the patio to punctuate the end of the event. Ben sobbed, sprawled on top of him.

Isla was screaming. She scurried over and dropped to a knee. ‘Oh my God – are you okay!?’

On the other side of him, Scott saw a pair of bare feet and stained shins, hovering an inch above the cold stone of the patio.

‘Leave me for now,’ Scott croaked, ‘but take Ben into the house. Quickly.’

Then he reached out with the hand that wasn’t attached to a broken collar-bone, and grasped a floating ankle.

As Isla pulled the whimpering form of an eight-year-old off him, Scott looked up at the torso of which he had a hold. A naked boy, covered in cuts and scars, mud and blood. A face that looked like Ben’s in features only. The eyes – and the depth behind them – displayed knowledge, experience and pain.

The gate rattled. Isla had disappeared with the boy.

Scott kept a hold; he didn’t know how quickly this thing could move around to the front of the house. It looked down at him curiously, like it’d encountered something unusual.

You’re the one with no clothes on and floating in the air, Scott thought, looking up at his boy-balloon.

When he heard the front door slam, he let go of the ankle. It wasn’t as much of a surprise as it should have been for him to then discover that the skin on his palm and fingertips was flesh-pink, puffy and blistering.

The boy-demon sat down next to Scott, cross-legged, but still hovering an inch or so above the ground. Scott was still more or less horizontal on the floor, his shoulder and ankle both screaming at him – agony babies vying for his attention.

The boy-demon put a hand on Scott’s chest, and – for that moment at least – all the pain went away. ‘Hello. I don’t think we know you.’

‘I’m nobody,’ Scott moaned. ‘I just work with Ben’s dad.’ At that moment, a shape appeared at the kitchen window. It was Mike staring out at them, as if Scott had just announced for him to come on down.

‘Hmmm,’ said the boy-demon. ‘Not nobody. Scott. Scott Carney.’

Scott felt a pulse in his chest where the little hand touched him. Not unpleasant but disconcerting nonetheless.

‘Scott Carney. Thirty-two. Has a small child with Isla Kenworthy. Lola! Oh, I bet she’s a doll!’

‘Leave them out of it.’

The boy-demon uttered a childish laugh. ‘It? It, Scott Carney? I’m afraid it has only just started.’ At that point the pair of them looked up into the kitchen again. Isla and Rachel had joined Mike, staring out onto the patio. Isla was crying and Rachel was doing her best to soothe her. Then she took her away, perhaps to check on Ben. ‘Don’t you mind them, Scott. They’re not going to come out and help you. The Hendersons know better. And they won’t let Isla out either. Not until morning. It’s just going to be us.’

‘What’s going to happen?’ he croaked, looking up into the tortured eyes of a beast in the petite frame of a child.

‘Oh, nothing tonight. We’re just going to get to know you better. We have until tomorrow when the sun comes up.’ It pressed a little firmer on Scott’s chest with its small palm. Scott felt warmth all over, to go with the absence of pain. He was being cocooned from any unpleasantness. He was being readied for a long night lying on the patio with a demon for company.

‘Yes, we shall get to know you. And then, tomorrow night, or the night after, or the night after that, should you open a door or a window to the dark…’ It grinned at him, revealing pointed teeth. ‘We shall be there. And we shall feast.’

The End

Viewer Discretion

By

Ryan Colley

Chapter One

It was nearly two in the morning, that hour where the internet felt emptier yet somehow louder. More chaotic. My phone screen was the only light in the room – a white glow cutting through the dark like a slit in a curtain. I’d told myself I’d just scroll until the end of the thread. Just one more post. One more video. One more story about missing hikers or cold cases. The kind of grim fascination that felt like research rather than obsession. That’s when the message came through.

No profile picture. No username I recognised. Just an icon of a grey silhouette and a plain text DM.

> Hey Max, you like true crime? check this out.

Then a link. No punctuation. No explanation. Just that.

For a minute, I stared at it. It didn’t even look like a proper URL – no HTTPS, no preview image, no metadata. Just a string of characters that looked wrong. Normally, I’d delete something like that without a second thought. But I’d just been reading a thread about haunted and disturbing websites, and the timing made it feel almost too coincidental. The rational part of my brain said, phishing scam. The other part – the part that had been marinating in hours of debunking videos – said, click it and discover your own mystery. That’s the thing about curiosity – it wears a lab coat when it should be dressing for the gallows.

Still, I wasn’t completely stupid. I had enough half-digested Reddit advice rattling around to make me feel like I knew what I was doing. I opened my laptop instead of my phone. Fired up a free VPN I found and felt safe in the invisibility. I even switched to incognito mode, because that always sounded cool and hackerish, even though I knew it didn’t actually hide anything. And then I opened the link.

***

The page took longer to load than I expected. Not in a buffering sort of way – more like it was waiting for me to regret it. The browser flickered black once, twice, and then settled. Plain black background. White text in the centre:

Stream begins in 00:11:47

Below it: a chat window, currently locked. A line of text beneath it:

Chat opens when the stream goes live.

That was it. No logo, no design, no watermark. Just sterile nothingness and a countdown ticking down by the second. I waited. Of course I did.

At first, I thought it must be a gimmick – some sort of ARG-style marketing thing. Maybe for a new true crime podcast or a horror short. They did this sort of thing all the time – you’d click a creepy link, get a fake livestream, and then it’d cut to a trailer once a countdown concluded. I even typed into Google on another tab, looking for upcoming horror movies – just to see if anything gave the same vibe. Results came up, but nothing tied to a livestream or anything. I’d figure out more as events unfolded.

Still, I found myself checking the timer again. Ten minutes gone. At 00:00:59, the site glitched – just a flicker, like static behind the black. I could swear I saw something flash there for a second: a shape, or a face, or maybe just my reflection on the screen. And when the timer hit zero, the text vanished. The chat box flickered once, then twice, before resolving. And then it started.

***

The stream window appeared without transition – just there. A rectangle of compressed video, grainy but clear enough to make out a man in front of a webcam. Plain white walls behind him. No backdrop, no branding, no music. Just a desk, a microphone, and a surgical mask over his face.

He spoke, calm and clear, with the crisp audio of someone using professional equipment.

“Good evening, everyone. Welcome back.”

My stomach tightened. The way he said welcome back implied there’d been others. The viewer count at the bottom ticked up: 23, then 46, then 112. I scrolled down to see if there was a comments section, but it was all greyed out. The chat stayed locked. There was no button to leave a reaction, no way to interact. We could only watch.

The host clasped his hands and smiled – you could tell even through the mask by the crinkle around his eyes.

“Tonight’s session will be a little different, but familiar enough for those who have returned,” he said calmly, voice like velvet. “We’ll begin shortly.”

I leaned back, half-expecting jump cuts, glitch effects, maybe some low droning music to start. But he just sat there, motionless, as if he were waiting too. It struck me how quiet everything was. No adverts. No sound effects. Just the faint hum of my laptop fan and my own breathing. I glanced at the viewer count again. Two hundred and eighty-one. Three hundred and six.

My palms were sweating. I told myself it was just the suspense – that this was what they wanted, the illusion of danger. But part of me wondered how many others, like me, were sitting in their dark rooms telling themselves the same thing. I told myself I could close the tab any time I wanted. But that casual ability to do so meant I didn’t.

Because I wanted to see what was going to happen.

Chapter Two

The host’s voice was the kind that belonged to a meditation app – soft, assured, with that faint trace of corporate calm. It filled the tiny speaker grille on my laptop like it was meant to be there.

“Thank you for joining us,” he said. “As always, our purpose tonight is transparency.”

The room behind him could have been anywhere. Beige walls. Office chair. Closed blinds. A stack of white binders and a plant that looked too perfect to be real. The kind of set-up you’d see in an HR training video.

He adjusted the mask against his face and leaned forward slightly, gloved hands folded on the desk, “Some of you are new members. That’s fine. You’ll learn quickly. We’re here to entertain. We’re here to show. We simply ask that you follow the rules.”

A new window slid up on the stream – a block of white text on a black background.

RULES OF THE ROOM:

1. All donations go directly to production.

2. Viewers may vote for the next action when prompted.

3. No spam. No leaks. No screenshots.

4. Obey moderators.

Then a new line faded in beneath it – a string of letters and numbers with mirrored backup addresses underneath. Each one led to what I assumed were crypto wallets. It wasn’t the random chaos of a hoax; it was methodical. Structured. Professional.

People had donated already – tiny icons of transactions popping up in the corner of the screen, each one pinging softly like sonar.

> 0.0084 BTC – “Pressure”

> 0.0029 BTC – “Mercy”

> 0.0141 BTC – “For the camera guy”

There was a certain horrifying functionality to it all. Like a storefront.

“This is a community-funded operation,” the host continued, his tone unwavering. “Everything you see tonight is made possible by you. The chat will open when the feed begins. Remember – your voice determines what happens next.”

And with that, the viewer count had jumped again. Over a thousand now.

I sat back and tried to talk myself down – though I didn’t truly understand what I was even talking myself down from yet. It was performance art. Or some elaborate interactive project. There were rules, polls, a funding model – this wasn’t how real crime worked. Except … I couldn’t shake how clean everything felt. The lighting, the sound balance, even the faint reflection in his glasses – not a single technical slip. Real livestreams were messy. This one was composed. That made it worse somehow. This had production value.

***

A small red icon appeared in the bottom corner of the frame:

MOD ACTIVE.

Then another:

CHAT BOT – VERIFICATION ENABLED.

Bots! They even had bots. I clicked the little info arrow and saw the bot’s name – MercyMod01. There was also PressureMod01. Both profiles were private and were already in the chat list, even though it was still locked.

The host smiled slightly and said, “To our veterans – welcome back. You know how this works. To our new guests – take a breath. Nothing begins until you’re ready.”

The way he said guests rather than viewers made something cold stir in my chest. He tapped something out of frame. The camera refocused, and for a second I saw the edge of a white curtain hanging behind him – thin, plastic, wrinkled at the bottom. Then it was gone again, cropped out.

I latched onto the slip like a drowning man to driftwood. A set. A backdrop. Proof that it was a production. Maybe it was an ARG. A YouTuber stunt. A hidden marketing ploy. A wave of relief washed over me. I opened another tab and searched a few of the phrases he’d used, or things that could identify it: pressure vs mercy stream; dark web interactive performance; masked host crypto donation. Nothing. Not a single match.

When I clicked back to the stream, the chat had gone live. Lines of grey text flooded up the screen:

> user4412: LET’S GO

> MercyMod01: Remember rule 3.

> user9921: PRESSURE PRESSURE PRESSURE

> user9983: is this real lol

> user2210: mercy’s for cowards

The host didn’t look at the chat, but he seemed to sense it. His eyes flicked sideways as though reading off a hidden monitor.

“Democracy in action,” he said, almost warmly. “That’s the spirit.”

The chat exploded with emotes and text. I should have closed the window. I should have shut the laptop. But instead, I leaned closer. Because part of me – the curious, sceptical part that started all this – still wanted to believe it was just theatre. That belief was the last safe thing I had left. Then he reached forward and pressed a key. A faint click, and the screen cut to black.

Chapter Three

The screen was only black, for two seconds at most – just enough to feel deliberate. But when it came back, the camera had changed. The setting was new. The walls had been lined with translucent plastic sheeting that hung loose at the corners. The floor gleamed under the reflection of floodlights – too bright, almost surgical. In the centre sat a metal chair, the sort you’d find in a school or hardware store, legs capped with black rubber feet. Someone was in it. And the host’s voice came through the speakers again.

“Welcome to the lobby. It’s time to begin.”

The individual in the chair had their hands bound behind the backrest with zip ties. A strip of silver tape crossed their mouth. They wore plain clothes – jeans and a T-shirt – but the shirt were damp at the collar as if they’d been sweating for hours. Their hair clung to their forehead, their eyes fixed somewhere just off-camera.

There was no music. No title card. Just the steady buzz of the lights and the faint hum of a microphone. Then came the ping.

> 0.0122 BTC – “Pressure”

It was followed by another. Then another. Little digital chimes stacking like rain.

Somewhere off-screen, the door creaked open. The host entered, mask still on, sleeves rolled up now. He carried a plastic bucket filled with what looked like water and ice. He placed it in front of the chair, crouched down, and looked at the camera.

“Welcome to the main event,” he said. “Tonight’s contestant was picked up from their home in the early hours of the morning. He is ecstatic to be here.”

His voice had the same calm cadence as before – like a doctor explaining a routine procedure. The bound figure gave a muffled noise, shaking their head sharply. The chair rattled against the floor.

In the chat, lines flew by:

> user2114: faker than my ex’s orgasms

> user5599: PRESSURE!

> user9921: PRESSURE PRESSURE PRESSURE

> user4242: LETS FUCKING GO!!!!

> user6912: Pressure. Make him cry.

> MercyMod01: Remain civil, please.

Then the donations started following. The host glanced at somewhere off camera with each one – each almost universally asked for Pressure.

“Looks like the audience has spoken.”

He reached into the bucket and pulled out a cube of ice, holding it in his gloved hand as droplets fell from it. Then he held it against the subject’s neck. The reaction was immediate – a sharp intake of breath, shoulders jerking. No screaming. No gore. Just discomfort.

“Temperature,” the host said. “It’s all about control.”

He set the metronome on the table beside him – the old-fashioned kind, wooden, with a swinging arm – and wound it once. The click was soft at first, then steady, rhythmically cutting through the silence.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Each sound made the subject flinch, their body anticipating something that didn’t come.

It went on for minutes – too long to be staged, too boring to be scripted. That was what unsettled me most. It wasn’t dramatic. It was procedural. The chat thought it was the funniest thing.

> user4242: FUCKING PUSSY

> user2114: Make him cry!

> user6822: This makes me want to fuck.

A new donation pinged.

> 0.005 BTC – “Add noise”

The host smiled faintly and reached for a phone on the table. He pressed play on a sound app – white noise, harsh and clinical, pouring out from a tinny speaker near the chair. The subject’s breathing turned ragged. Their head twisted as if trying to find the source.

I caught myself leaning in closer, eyes darting between the metronome’s swing and the timer at the bottom of the stream. Twenty-two minutes since the start. My mouth was dry. It wasn’t that I wanted to see more – it was that I needed to know where it was leading.

“It’s just acting,” I muttered, a thinly veiled lie to myself. Enough to keep me from turning it off, enough to justify me continuing to watch.

I opened a new tab, typed various phrases and words in the hopes of finding something similar, and scanned a dozen old Reddit posts. Threads from 2018, 2020 – all insisting livestreamed performance art was the future. I came across debunking videos of something called Red Rooms, but kept moving past it. More pings reminded me that the stream was still up and the chat was still flying. The donation ticker was still updating in real time.

I clicked back and watched the host adjust the camera slightly, centering the shot, and picked up a second bucket – empty this time. He tipped it over the subject’s head. It clanged hollowly, amplifying their muffled breathing.

“Deprivation,” he said, softly, as if lecturing. “Sight, sound, sense of control. It’s not about pain. It’s about proximity to it.”

He turned the metronome off. The silence that followed felt heavier than noise. The chat went wild – so fast that I could only catch glimpses:

> user4111: You can c him freakin out!

> user1777: he’s losing it loool

> user5555: mercy pls :(

> user6822: im jacking off to this

> user9921: PRESSURE PRESSURE PRESSURE

> PressureMod01: Voting closed.

I hovered over the close tab button. My cursor trembled.

Just one more minute, I told myself. One more look for the seam – the cut – the proof that this was staged.

I watched the stream closely. Frame by frame. I watched the host’s hand reach into the bucket again, the ice glinting in the light. No splices. No edits. No sign of transition. I watched as the man in the chair flinched and shook. Even if it wasn’t real, it looked real enough that my brain couldn’t tell the difference.

I tried to pause or replay parts of the stream, just to see if I could catch something. But there was no option to do so. Each time I looked away or tried to research something that told me it was just a hoax, the chat kept rolling without me – the donations, the comments, the taunts. Like a tide that didn’t care whether I was watching.

When I looked back at the stream, the host had moved behind the chair – the bucket was gone now. He stood there quietly, one gloved hand resting on the subject’s shoulder. The camera didn’t move. He didn’t speak. Just held that position as if waiting for something unseen. Then he leaned down, close to the subject’s ear, and whispered something I couldn’t hear. The microphone didn’t pick it up. The subject went still. Completely still.

Another ping. Another donation.

> 0.0117 BTC – “Mercy”

The host straightened up, checked off-screen again, and finally turned to face the camera.

“Mercy granted,” he said. “For now.”

He walked off-screen. The metronome started again by itself, still ticking.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The stream didn’t cut. It just stayed on the subject – silent, trembling, barely breathing – while the viewer count climbed past two thousand. I sat there, frozen, my finger hovering over the keyboard. But I didn’t close the window. And again, I looked for seams that weren’t there. Because I had to believe there were. Because if there weren’t … then I was watching something real.

Chapter Four

The screen faded to black. For a few seconds, there was only the sound of the metronome ticking somewhere in the dark. Then the host’s voice returned – calm, smooth, almost affable.

“While we reset,” he said, “I’d like to take a moment to thank everyone for your generosity. You make this work possible.”

When the feed came back, the camera was angled slightly differently. The subject was still there – slumped forward, arms bound, head bowed – but the host now sat in front of the same desk from the earlier lobby scene. Behind him, the blinds were half-drawn, soft light spilling through. It was the first time I’d noticed how domestic it looked. Like someone’s rented flat.

He spoke with the unhurried rhythm of a man doing a sponsored segment.

“We’ve reached an impressive total tonight. Over one point seven in combined donations. That means new cameras, better audio, and maybe, if you’re very good, another show this weekend,” he chuckled – a short, warm sound. “Our sponsors thank you. Our production team thanks you. I thank you.”

It was impossible to tell if there was anyone else behind that lens. But it didn’t matter, as a new overlay popped up at the bottom of the screen.

NEW POLL:

CONTINUE PRESSURE

GRANT MERCY

ESCALATE.

Three options. Three buttons. The donations resumed almost immediately – little flashes of cryptocurrency moving faster than my eyes could follow. I scrolled down, half to distract myself. The chat had erupted again.

> user9931: dude’s voice is smoother than silk

> user1180: he should do ASMR

> user8201: nah that guy’s dead fr

> user6822: post nut clarity hitting hard :(

> user9921: PRESSURE PRESSURE PRESSURE

> user4113: just mercy already, it’s boring

> user1310: lmao my boss is gonna see this in my history

But then I started noticing something else among the usernames – not the generic, anonymous ones that had been crawling up the feed. Between them were normal ones. Middle-aged Facebook kind of names. jenny_hill_78, garethcook88, t_morrison94. No avatars. No anonymity. People who could’ve been anyone – a teacher, a nurse, a bloke from the next street over.

> user_KJKennedy84: I love this.

> user_TowseM101: This is the best one yet.

> user_Ryancc91: This needs to escalate. I have work in a few hours

I realised, then, that normal people were here watching this. They were the veterans – the ones who returned enough to have their own username. Their own profile. And they weren’t ashamed to show it.

The poll closed. Escalate won by a landslide. The host returned to the plastic room. He moved with the same clean efficiency as before – not cruel, not excited, just methodical. He picked up a new tool from the table. A short rubber baton. The kind police used for crowd control. He held it in both hands, testing its flex.

Then, in that same measured voice, he said, “The people have spoken.”

The camera didn’t cut away.

He struck the man once across the thigh. Not hard – a test. The sound was sickening anyway. The subject jerked. Another blow followed. Then another. Still controlled. Still measured. The donations poured in, each ping marking a strike.

> 0.0087 BTC – “Right arm”

> 0.0024 BTC – “Face next”

> 0.0171 BTC – “Harder”

> 1.0000 BTC – “Face”

Blood appeared on the subject’s temple – not much, just a dark streak where skin had split. I waited for the tell. A squib, a colour shift, an edit. But the camera stayed still. No flicker. No splice. He paused between hits to wipe his gloves with a cloth, checking a screen only he could see like he was reading out questions from the audience.

“We maintain standards,” he said mildly.

The chat flooded faster, a blur of white text and black usernames. Some were begging for mercy. Others typed PRESSURE in all caps until the letters lost meaning. My mouth tasted metallic.

“It’s fake, it’s fake,” I kept whispering between my gritted teeth. But every sound, every motion, every wet thud, every twitch of pain on that person’s face looked human. I moved the mouse toward the tab again. My hand shook. Then the host looked up at the camera – straight through it.

“Time for the finale you paid for,” he said. I froze.

And as the next donation pinged – louder, sharper this time – he lifted the baton again. The metronome started back up, keeping time with the blows.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The donations didn’t stop, and neither did the host.

Chapter Five

The stream didn’t cut between rounds this time. The host stayed in frame, breathing steady, methodical. The baton was gone – replaced by something smaller. A leather strap, maybe, or cable. I couldn’t quite tell. The sound it made was different – duller, heavier.

Each impact drew a noise from the bound man that wasn’t a scream, not anymore. Just broken sounds – hiccupped breaths, small whimpers that came out through the tape. His head lolled forward. Blood traced the curve of his jaw.

The donations kept pinging, quieter now. Almost reverent.

> 0.004 BTC – “Pressure.”

> 0.006 BTC – “Keep going.”

I’d lost track of time. The clock in the corner said 03:41. My laptop fan had grown louder, a constant whine under the clicks and pings. The chat still moved, though slower now, as if everyone was watching too closely to type.

The host worked with the detachment of a craftsman. He wasn’t enjoying it, not obviously. To him, he was just doing a job. When the subject tried to squirm free, the host paused, tightened the restraints, then continued. Always with the same rhythm – to a beat only he could hear.

I told myself I was still here to see how the trick worked. To find the proof – the tell – that it was all fake. But there wasn’t one. The blood was too thin to be stage blood. The trembling was too uncontrolled to be an act. Even the light caught the tears on the man’s cheek. He was weeping.

The chat, that endless tide of noise, never stopped:

> user2174: more please

> user5531: We’re getting there lads!

> user9921: PRESSURE PRESSURE PRESSURE

> MercyMod01: new poll opening.

And then it appeared, the new poll – two words, stark white against the black bar at the bottom of the stream:

MERCY

KILL

The donations exploded. Faster than before. Pings tripping over one another, like rain on tin. The numbers climbed faster than I could read. The Kill total shot ahead almost immediately.

Within thirty seconds, the margin was obscene.

The host wiped his gloves on a towel, watching the ticker as if checking a scoreboard. When the poll closed, he nodded once, businesslike.

“Democracy in action,” he said.

He reached behind the chair, and there was a brief rustle of movement. The man tried to shout through the tape, body jerking, chair legs skittering across the floor. The host caught him by the hair, steadied him, and in a single fluid motion – no hesitation, no flourish – drew something across his throat. It was silent. A wet sound, then nothing.

The man twitched once, twice, then went still. His eyes stayed open. The chat stopped. Completely. No words. No emotes. No pings. Just stillness. The host stepped back and looked at his work. His breathing didn’t change. He placed the blade on the table, straightened his sleeves, and turned toward the camera. And for the first time all night, he removed his mask.

***

He wasn’t anyone special. Brown hair, average build, face slightly flushed from heat. He could have been anyone you’d see buying coffee in a queue. The ordinariness of him made my stomach turn. He smiled – polite, professional.

“And that concludes tonight’s broadcast,” he said. “This outcome, as always, was made possible by viewers like you.”

The word you landed different than how it should have. It wasn’t collective. It was personal. A direct address.

I sat back, hand frozen on the trackpad. My pulse hammered so hard it blurred my vision. I was still waiting for a reveal – that it was all fake. That it was some grand show to advertise the latest horror phenomenon. It never came.

The host didn’t break eye contact. He looked right into the lens – right through it.

“Your contributions keep this alive,” he said, almost softly. “Your curiosity. Your attention. Without it, there’s nothing. So … thank you.”

He reached forward, fingers brushing the camera as if to end the feed. But he didn’t. Not yet.

He tilted his head slightly, listening to something off-screen – a faint beep, maybe a notification. Then he smiled again, smaller this time.

“Now, don’t go just yet. We have one last announcement before we close,” he said with a casual easiness that no man who just did what he had should. Then, the screen went to black.

Chapter Six

The screen stayed black for longer than usual. The feed window had gone blank, the chat frozen mid-scroll. I was about to close the tab when the cursor flickered – once, twice – and the stream resumed. The host was back. Mask on again. Calm, collected, unhurried. He sat at his desk, hands folded neatly before him, the blood from the last segment gone as if it had never happened. Clean gloves. Fresh shirt. Like nothing had taken place at all.

“Thank you to those who stayed with us,” he said. His tone had shifted – smoother, almost intimate now. “We appreciate your loyalty. Your dedication keeps this community strong.”

The chat was open again, but nobody typed. Maybe they were stunned. Maybe they’d all left. Or maybe they were eagerly waiting for what came next.

The host looked down for a moment, scrolling on his phone. Then he gave a small, satisfied nod.

“It seems we’ve met tonight’s quota,” he continued. “But before we sign off, I have one last surprise for our remaining viewers – as promised.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. The camera focus shifted slightly, bringing his eyes into sharp relief behind the mask’s cutouts. They were light brown, ringed with something darker – attentive, almost kind.

“The next contestant,” he said softly, “has already been selected.”

My stomach twisted.

“If you stay with us,” he went on, “you’ll get to watch the pickup live. We like to reward those who see things through.”

He let the words hang there. The quiet between them was heavy, measured.

Some of the usernames in the chat began to reappear, hesitant lines breaking the stillness:

> user4412: another one already??

> user1139: lmao he never stops

> user8281: pickup??

> user0172: we’ve never had a live pickup before

> user1002: I hope it’s my cunt wife.

The host ignored them. His gaze was fixed on the lens.

“Now,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “this is where things get interesting. Every show needs a willing audience. Most of the time, the audience finds us. Occasionally, we find our audience.”

He tapped something on the desk. A soft beep followed – the sound of a notification, or maybe a program starting. Lines of text flickered across the bottom of the stream.

“Our system logs every viewer,” he explained, “for security and consistency. Members are encrypted, anonymised, and verified. But every so often, someone finds their way in through a public link.”

I felt my breath shorten. My cursor hovered over the tab’s close button, but I didn’t click it. My fingers wouldn’t move. I couldn’t.

“When that happens,” the host continued, “the stream flags them automatically. Not to punish – simply to acknowledge their curiosity.”

The camera zoomed a little closer, the background blurring. His eyes didn’t blink.

“You see,” he said, “curiosity isn’t harmless. It’s a signal. It tells us where to look.”

Another flicker at the bottom of the feed – code, coordinates, something that looked like IP fragments scrolling past. Then the chat started lighting up again, this time with question marks, laughter, mock fear.

> user4412: ooooh spooky lol

> user9120: he’s bluffing

> user0033: get the vpn boys!

> user7110: what’s happening??

The host’s smile deepened, just slightly.

“One of you isn’t a member,” he said, almost tenderly. “You came in through a public link. We sent out dozens tonight – but only one of them snagged a little fish. You thought you were just watching.” He paused. The sound of his breathing was faint through the mic. “But you gave away your location, the moment you clicked that link.”

The silence stretched until I could hear my own pulse in my ears.

Then, softly – almost conversationally, “Isn’t that right, Max?”

I froze. My name. Not my username. Not my email. My. Name. It echoed in my head, impossible and intimate all at once.

The feed glitched for half a second – the kind of visual stutter I’d seen before – and then the image changed. The camera angle shifted again, showing a new feed. Night-vision green. A quiet suburban street.

My street.

I recognised the parked cars. The row of terraces. The faint orange glow from the corner shop sign at the end. The camera panned slowly, deliberately, until it stopped at my house. The host’s voice came through one last time, faint and calm.

“Get ready, Max …” then, in a whisper that almost sounded like a smile – “You’re next.”

The feed cut to black, and I heard my front door open.

The End

Mile Marker 66.6

By

William F. Gray

Thumb up in the air, Warren Smith walked backwards southbound on Interstate 81.  Sweat poured down his face and soaked the collar of his threadbare Led Zeppelin t-shirt as the sun baked him like an egg yolk on the hot asphalt.  Normally he’d be on the lookout for a state police cruiser in the distance, but the triple digit temperature left him feeling careless.  Hell, he’d welcome a ride in the back of an air conditioned cop car.

Until then, he’d hope and pray that someone would see the too-skinny, sun burned man walking along the side of the interstate and take pity on him.

He passed a sign to his left and saw that he was at mile marker sixty-seven.  When he’d started the morning, he’d been at seventy-eight.  Eleven miles in three hours seemed a little light, but it felt like traversing Hell out in the heat.

What he wouldn’t give for a breeze or at least a solitary cloud in the sky.  Anything to take the edge off of this horrible day.

He regretted even setting out on this journey.  Should have stayed in Philadelphia, a notion he’d begun to think more and more as the miles ticked away.  While he’d spent most of the distance in cars of various makes, models, and conditions, he’d spent more time walking.  The sun was brutal in August, and he felt like he was a piece of leather being tanned underneath it.

Nothing was worth this, not even a free stint in rehab.

Speaking of…

Warren reached into his pocket and retrieved a small plastic baggy with brown powder in it as well as a short piece of a plastic straw.  Not the best heroin he’d ever had, but it prevented him from getting sick, which in turn kept him on the road to the Oasis Recovery Center just over the state line.  The moment he started feeling withdrawal symptoms, he knew he’d back out of his arrangement with his sister.

Turning his back to the oncoming traffic, he scooped the tiniest amount he felt would be effective and snorted it.  The burn was instantaneous but also welcome.  Familiar, like scratching an itch until it bled.  Even though it hurt, it was also a relief.

I can do this.  Get clean.  Make something of myself.

As a forty year old ex-con, Warren didn’t have any misgivings about the opportunities waiting on the other side of this adventure.  Even if he did manage to get clean, he’d never go to college.  A GED, though, was surely in the cards.  A decent paying job, as long as he was willing to put in the work, was right there too.

And if he got his shit together, Izzy agreed to let him stay in the in-law suite at her house.  His sister and her husband both worked in recovery services, having both seen what addiction looked like up close.  Warren wasn’t sure what Johnny’s experience with substance abuse was, who he’d known that had succumbed to this particularly unforgiving demon, but he knew that was one of the things that brought him and Izzy together in the first place.

As the small bump slowly took the edge off, he thought back to all the times he’d stolen from them over the years.  Silverware, tech, money—he had taken them for thousands upon thousands of dollars, and that didn’t even count all the assistance they’d willingly given.  It was him that drove them away, to move three states away to be free of the burden that was Warren.

The fact that they were willing to go this far for him wasn’t lost on him.  Izzy had even offered to drive up to Philadelphia and pick him up, but Warren had refused.  He didn’t want to inconvenience his sister any more than he already was, and part of him had been afraid to accept it out of fear of backing out at the last minute.  Better for him to try to hitch his way down and not burn the bridge entirely if he needed something in the future.

So Izzy had instead offered to pay for a ticket, he’d graciously accepted—and insisted that she send him the money directly rather than buy a ticket for him.  He had little doubt that she knew his intentions, but she’d caved with little resistance.  Maybe because she’d wanted to believe in him so desperately.

It made him feel sleazy just thinking about it, but he also knew he had to have a little help to make the distance.  He was already feeling dope sick when they’d hit him with the offer, and Warren knew that he’d never go through with it if he was already feeling the effects of going without.

The money bought about a half of a gram, which amounted to ten ‘single use’ baggies.  He’d stretched the last four until now, and he was less than eighty miles from his destination with a bag and a half left.

He could do this.  He could…

The loud bleat of a horn caused him to jump, nearly dropping the baggie he held.  The idea of losing this precious few bumps made his heart beat hard and irregularly, but then he turned and saw the black van idling on the side of the road.

The windshield was tinted just dark enough that he couldn’t make out any details of the driver.  Warren gave an anxious little wave, which the silhouette behind the wheel returned.

Shoving the heroin back into the pocket of his cargo shorts, he made his way to the passenger side of the transit van and plastered the best smile onto his face that he could.  His reflection stared back at him as he approached: a sickly looking man with bad teeth, long, greasy blonde hair, and sunken eyes.

Jesus.

The window rolled down and revealed the driver.  A portly, balding guy with horn rimmed glasses flashed an awkward smile.

“Where ya headed?”

Warren wiped the sweat from his face.  “As far as you’ll take me to the state line, sir.”

“Ah, trying to skip out of Virginia are you?” The man’s smile, while still a little off, was warm and friendly.  “Got to say you’re looking a worse for wear.”

“I’ve been hitching from Philly since Thursday,” Warren said, suddenly self-conscious of his bad sunburn.  “I’m on my way to see family.”

“Well, hop on in!”

The stranger didn’t have to ask Warren twice.  The door creaked as he opened it and climbed into the passenger seat, relishing in the cool air conditioning.  The smell of recently bought fast food wafted up to greet him, and his stomach rumbled.

“You don’t happen… to have any food, do you?” Warren asked, then instantly regretted.  “Actually, it’s—”

The stranger waved his hand.  “No, don’t be ridiculous!  I’ve actually got an extra burger I was saving for later, but you’re welcome to it!”

Warren watched with hungry eyes as the driver reached down and retrieved a Burger King bag.  Taking it from him, he had to stop himself from ripping into the bag like a kid on Christmas.  As he opened the burger and took his first bite, the stranger watched with a smile.

Warren was almost halfway through when the man spoke again.  “Before we start, I have a question for you.  My friend.”

The last bit felt tacked on at the end, like an afterthought.  My friend.

“Uh… sure,” Warren responded, his mouth still full of hamburger.

“I need to know if you’re carrying.”

Despite the coolness of the van, fresh sweat broke out all over his body.

“Carrying?” Warren asked, doing his best to play dumb.  He was confident in his skills to mislead the average person, but something about this man seemed off.  The guy hadn’t even given him his name.

“Dope.  Smack.  You know the deal.”  The strangers eyes were glassy and empty as he stared at Warren.  “So, are you?”

“No,” Warren told him.  “I don’t do that shit.”

The portly man stared at him a moment longer before flashing a smile that showed too many teeth, all of them perfectly straight.

“Alrighty then.”

The man put the van in drive and cut the wheel—only, he turned it the wrong way.  The vehicle rocked as he pulled off the side of the highway and into the grass toward the trees.

“Hey, hey!”  Warren yelled, sticking his arm out and bracing himself against the dirty dash.  The rest of the burger dropped from his other hand after a particularly bad bounce.  The suspension screamed in protest with each small dip.  “What the fuck, man!”

The driver didn’t turn around to face him, but Warren saw his demeanor change.  The jovial smile gave way to a deep frown, but he remained silent.  Warren decided this was the last place on earth he wanted to be and reached for the door handle only for his hand to sweep through the air where it should have been.  All that remained was a jagged stub too short for him get ahold.

“Dude, let me out!”

“No can do, brother.  You’re in bad shape.  It’s why I stopped.  You need help, and me and my pals are gonna give it to you.”

Warren was well past panic now.  He was at maximum freak the fuck out.  “Please, let me out!”

“You heard the man,” came a voice from the darkness in the far back of the van.  Warren twisted in surprise and was met with a white cloth leaping from the darkness, fingers with dirty nails clasping it.  The center was wet, and Warren tried to lean away but it was no use.  The cloth pressed against his face with enough force that his teeth gnashed against his lips, drawing blood.  A second hand that matched the first grabbed his hair, and he was just able to make out the details of a large, bearded man with a shaved head in the darkness before the drugs pressed against his face began to take effect.

He slipped into unconsciousness, letting the van’s turbulent ride rock him to sleep.

***

When Warren came to, the smell of shit was the first thing he noticed.  It was strong enough that it nearly made him gag.  His mind was foggy from the drug (probably chloroform, he thought) and he looked down at his body, willing his vision to focus. His eyes widened in surprise.  All of his clothes had been stripped away while he was knocked out.  Even his underwear was gone, replaced with a ratty looking loincloth that barely covered his manhood.

“What the hell…” He slurred.  It took all of his strength to lift his head and look around.  He instantly regretted it.

He was in some kind of barn, the floor a mix of dirt and shit and hay, the wooden beams so old they looked dry rotted.  Very little light made its way in through the slits between boards, but in that light he could make out the many, many crosses that adorned the walls.

Crosses.

Hundreds of them.

The only place they weren’t displayed was a work bench directly in front of where he was seated.  A small hotplate sat on the top with a thick, leather-bound book that Warren could only assume was the Bible.  Next to them, half a dozen knives of varying sizes were laid out with intricate care.  Evenly spaced apart, tips pointed away from the chair that Warren sat in.

He went to stand, panic beginning to clear his mind, but was unable to.  He suddenly became aware of the pain in his wrists and calves that he’d been too distracted to notice before.

Tied up.

He opened his mouth to scream, but the door at the far end of the barn slid open to reveal three silhouettes.  The portly man was easily recognizable and Warren was fairly sure that the large man in the center was the one from the back of the van.  It was the slender woman that drew his attention.  She seemed so out of place among the others.

Together, the three entered the room and closed the door behind them.  The change in light made some of the woman’s details come into view and Warren gasped at the sight of her.  A long scar running the length of her beautiful face, only broken by a milky white eye.  The tissue was a soft pink, implying it was fresh.  Another pair of pinkish lines ran down the length of her throat.

“Hello, Mr. Smith,” she said, her voice silky smooth and comforting.  He instantly didn’t trust her.  “We’re so sorry for this… unpleasantness.”

“Who the hell are you people?” Warren asked, his voice breaking.  “What do you want from me?”

“My name is Alyssa.  My friends here are Oren,” she pointed toward the bigger man, “and Gregory.”  As she motioned toward each man, Warren saw that she was missing two fingers on her right hand.  There were still stitches there.  “As for why we’re here… we’re hoping you can help us.”

“Help you?”

Alyssa nodded.  “There’s a great man here, one who’s helped many people.  Including myself.  But… he’s lost his way.  He… he invited something in that he shouldn’t have, and we need your help to make it leave.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Hey!” Oren screamed, his voice as commanding as his size.  “Watch your mouth, heathen.”

Heathen.  The crosses.  the Bible.

“How am I supposed to help you?”

Alyssa smiled.  “The thing that Father Jones invited in… we need to find it a new home.  We think you might be the perfect candidate for this demon.”

Demon.  Jesus Christ, these people are insane.

They were also an opportunity.  If they were crazy enough to believe this insanity, maybe he could fake his way through this.  Act out what they want to see.

“You don’t seem too freaked out by this,” Alyssa said, breaking his train of thought.  “Are you a believer?”

Sell it.  You gotta sell it.  Warren decided adhering as close to the truth was his best chance, at least until he was out of his depths.  “I’m all too familiar with demons.”

He watched as Alyssa’s eyes flashed and Gregory shifted uncomfortably.  Only Oren seemed unaffected, his bulky frame looking more like a statue than an actual human being.  The big man watched him closely with narrowed eyes.

Alyssa reached into her pocket and retrieved an all-too-familiar baggy.  The air was sucked out of the entire room the moment that Warren saw it.

“That’s mine,” he said, his voice low and threatening.  As if he had any ground to stand on, tied to a chair and still fighting the fog of being drugged.  “Give it back.”

The disappointment in Alyssa’s eyes was so shockingly obvious that it almost threw Warren off.  He forgot all about the little baggy of brown powder in her hand.  Then his gaze found it again, drawn to the drugs like magnets, and the fog lifted from his brain.

It was replaced with a sense of necessity so strong that it nearly took the breath from his lungs.

“Please,” Warren managed.  He ground his teeth, the sensation so amplified that it sent shivers down his spine.  “Please, I need it.”

“See, you don’t, though.” Alyssa stepped to the side and behind him before returning with a chair.  The metal legs dug into the raw earth of the barn.  “But… I am willing to give it back to you.”

“I’ll do anything,” Warren said, and he was afraid of how much he meant that.

Alyssa turned toward the two men standing behind her.  “Bring him in.”

The two men made their way to the heavy sliding door across from Warren and threw it open.  The sudden burst of sunlight was so bright that it felt more like a chisel straight through the center of his head as the two men stepped out into the bright day.

After they were gone, Alyssa moved to the workbench and tapped a small amount of powder out onto a spoon Warren had failed to notice.  When she opened  a drawer and retrieved a hypodermic needle, Warren began to squirm a bit.  It’d been days since he last shot up, and watching her work made him even more desperate for it.  Even in his state, he could see that her movements spoke of experience that he would normally be impressed by under different circumstances.  The click of the lighter sent a tremor through his body.  Right then, all that he cared about was getting that little fix.  How long had it been since his last?  He’d been picked up just before noon, and judging by the way the sun was streaming into the barn, it had to be close to six o’clock in the evening.

All these thoughts dissipated as Alyssa brought the hypodermic filled with heroin and a ripped piece of cloth over to him.  She carefully laid the capped needle on the cloth and slowly untied his ratty sneakers, pulled off his socks, and carefully took his dirty foot in her hand.  Warren nearly moaned when she gripped the needle with her other hand and pulled the cap off with her teeth.   She paused with the needle in her hand.

“Warren, I need your word that you’ll do exactly what we ask of you.”

“Yes, anything!” Warren practically yelled.  “I’ll do anything, please, just… just do it!”

“Do you swear to God?”

Warren would have sworn on his sister’s life.  “I swear to God.”

Alyssa stared at him for a moment before nodding.  “Okay.”

Splaying his big toe out from his others, Alyssa slipped the needle into the webbing there and depressed the plunger.

The feeling was almost instantaneous.  A new fog, this one like a warm embrace, fell over him.  Warren let out a slow breath as she pulled the needle out and put his socks and shoes back on.  She even tied his shoe for him.

“Thank… you…” Warren managed.  He watched her return to the bench and place the hypodermic needle into a Sharps container she retrieved from another, deeper drawer.

Before she could say anything back to him, the two men reappeared, dragging a man behind them.  His mouth was coated in dried blood, and thick ropes wrapped around him like a cocoon.  His eyes were obscured by a piece of cloth wrapped tightly around his head.

He struggled against the pull of the two men, screaming loudly in a dialect that Warren couldn’t make out in his current stupor.

“Put him down in the chair,” Alyssa told them, and it sounded like her voice was coming from the other side of a fish tank.  “Make sure he’s secure.”

Warren watched the two men force their prisoner into the chair.  Oren held him in place as Gregory retrieved more rope from beside the workbench, and Warren noticed something peculiar about the strange newcomer seated across from him.

He was dressed in the attire of a priest.

“What’s… what’s happening?”

“This is Father Carroll.  He’s the friend I was telling you about.”

Alyssa pulled the man’s blindfold away, revealing obsidian eyes rimmed with crimson.  Even in Warren’s state, he felt terror as he watched Father Carroll try to break Oren’s hold on him.  Gregory rushed back and secured him with the rope as he bit at the air with broken teeth.

“Jesus Christ!” Warren cried out, struggling against his own binds.  The sluggishness of the heroin was still there, but he was certainly more clear headed than he was a moment ago.

Father Carroll, or rather the demon inside Father Carroll, grinned in the most terrible manner that Warren thought possible.  “He won’t help you hear, Sonny-Boy!  He didn’t help the Good Priest here, as you can see!”

Oren slugged Carroll in the face, and Alyssa screamed at him to stop.  The demon simply grinned as Oren held his hands up in surrender.

“Did he… did he agree to do it?”  Gregory asked.  Warren had to crane his neck to see the portly man.  He’d fled several yards away and stood near a beam, wringing his hands over and over.

I should have just bought the goddamn ticket, Warren thought, and had to fight the urge to laugh.  At least I’ll never have to hitchhike again after this.

“He did,” Alyssa said, “So let’s get this show on the road.”

Oren simply nodded before reaching behind him and pulling out the longest knife-that-wasn’t-a-machete that Warren had ever seen.

Definitely never hitching again.

“So how does this work?” Oren asked.

Alyssa took a steadying breath and turned toward Father Carroll.  His grin grew even larger as she tried to find the words.

When she did, Warren couldn’t understand a single syllable.  It was something akin to what he imagined Latin to sound like, only more guttural.  He’d think it was nothing but gibberish if it wasn’t for Carroll’s reaction.

The man’s expression turned from glee to growing pain with each passing moment.  Warren watched in horror as his jaw snapped  before popping back into place.  Blood began to first dribble then pour from every orifice.

Then something bulged out from  Carroll’s torso, a bulbous protrusion that began in his gut before working its way up to his chest.

“Please, wait, I don’t want this, I don’t…”

“You already agreed to it,” Oren hissed from his place behind the priest.  The sun behind him was fading as night approached.  “Ain’t no going back now.”

The bulge moved into Carroll’s throat and he began to choke.  Blood poured from his mouth, and sulfuric smoke spilled out from between his lips that curled into the air and toward Warren.

Warren’s mouth opened in a scream as Alyssa continued her strange exorcism.  The smoke grew darker and left Carroll faster, finally reaching Warren and worming its way between his lips.  It tasted acidic and earthy, and it was hot.  It burned the soft tissue of his mouth, his tongue, and his throat as it worked its way inside his lungs.  He tried to scream, but it blocked his airways like it was something solid instead of smoke.

His eyes rolled back in his head and he felt his body seize.  He bucked against his restraints, desperate for air, and then he felt himself pulled backward into oblivion.

***

When he opened his eyes, Warren was looking through a pair of oval windows.  The room was pitch black; what little light seemed to dissipate against the darkness.

Outside of the windows, Alyssa, Oren, and Gregory hurriedly untied Father Carroll and lifted him from the chair.  The man was limp, his mouth slick with fresh blood, but Warren could tell he was alive.

“You think this is over?”

The voice was familiar, too familiar to be one of theirs, and Warren realized it was his.  The truth came to him in a sudden flash, one of those lightbulb moments that he used to have but had abandoned him since he turned to drugs all those years ago.

He wasn’t in a room.

This was his body, and someone else was in control.

Something.

“You think you can run away?”  Warren’s voice was gravelly, either from the damage done by the smoke or the demon destroying it.  “When I get out of here, the first thing I’ll do is rip each of your fucking throats o—”

“You aren’t getting out of here,” Oren spat, cutting him off.  Warren watched as the large man pulled out a lighter.  “When we get out of here, the first thing I’ll do is light this goddamned barn on fire and watch it burn.  Watch you burn, you evil bastard.”

Warren’s laugh filled the barn, but the group gave it no mind.  As Warren watched the people who had kidnapped him, tied him up, and literally shoved a demon down his throat to save their friend leave, he once again thought about the bus ticket.

Life is a series of seemingly inconsequential decisions, until it isn’t.  Eventually, one choice is the most important of all, and it leads to the end.

Warren screamed into the abyss of his mind as smoke began to fill the barn.

The End

The Juggling Jester’s Final Appearance

By

Michael Laimo

Myron ‘The Juggling Jester’ Higginbottom scowled at the black and white film playing on the smudged, thirteen-inch screen in his trailer. It’s a wonderful life, my ass.

He peered guardedly around the cluttered space, then, using the flat end of a makeup brush handle, crushed the forty-milligram oxy Crazy Javi sold him on the worn Formica counter. It’s got a lickable surface. A third of Myron’s paycheck went into Javier’s pocket…that talentless taco who less than a year ago swam naked across the Rio Grande and, without even the clothes on his back, eluded border patrol and manipulated his way into the dim limelight Big Man Charlie’s Traveling Little-Top proffered to small-town crowds across America. Fucking guy couldn’t hold a candle to the Juggling Jester in his prime! But that was then, and the Universe thought otherwise now, and continued to pay Crazy Javi off handsomely while Myron gazed emptily from the sidelines, his days of juggling knives in the spotlight bowing out to tossing rubber baseballs to rhesus monkeys, his once-revered position center stage bottled-up in Crazy Javi’s rapidly growing shadow.

“This used to be my trailer,” Myron grumbled, peering over his shoulder at Javier (who, in addition to the Little-Top limelight, also procured half of Myron’s living space) before snorting the grainy powder into his right nostril (the left used to be his go-to before it started snotting blood). He washed it down with a few swigs from the pint of Wild Turkey he kept in his duffle bag, then locked eyes with Javier and expelled a long, whispery, unpleasant ahhhhhhhhh right in the migrant’s face.

“You remind me this all the time, Cabron,” Javier replied, slowly and with a prickly snicker. The trailer used to have a star on the door, and Myron’s name used to surround it, Myron the Juggling Jester Higginbottom, before the star fell off and the letters peeled away, leaving room for Charlie the Little-Top bossman to sticker Crazy Javi on it in giant, shiny gold decals (undoubtedly nicked from some South Texas Dollar General).

Myron would never forget what the greasy pigman had said: “Javi is funny, Mo-ron, and he’s half your age. No boo-boo-fingers to cry like a man-baby about.” Big Man Charlie twirled his handlebar moustache, snapped his threadbare suspenders, then retrieved a spit-soaked cigar from his shirt pocket and shoved it in his mouth. “And Javi’s getting half your pay, take it or leave it!”

He took it. Right on the chin. And in the balls. And he kept on taking it, like a champ, a chump, both in and out of the spotlight. He struggled without success to ignore his Mexican adversary, thought about reporting him to the authorities, but didn’t even know where to start. Myron Higginbottom could do nothing but long for a gift from the heavens--anything from anywhere--to help bring back a fragment of his former splendid self…a means to eliminate the pain: years of Little-Top mishaps resulting in broken ribs, sprained ankles, torn ligaments, and open wounds, all heartily challenging his body’s rapidly deteriorating healing response.

And now: younger, funnier, healthier Javier.

Myron belched loudly, declaring his agonies to be “nothing a little toot can’t fix.” He sniffed loudly, pinched his nostrils, then wiped away the mucus-y discharge with his tattered sleeve before peering dead-eyed at his withering reflection, soon to be hidden beneath the daubed guise he’d worn for nearly thirty years. His security blanket, thank the good lordy-Jesus he still had that!

He applied the white grease base, not as smoothly as he often did, but in clumpy layers, heavy uneven streaks on his brow and neck that looked just fine to his Oxy-cloaked eyes. It wasn’t an easy feat, night after night, getting the makeup just right. Not that it mattered, of course; no one gave a shit what Myron the Juggling Jester was supposed to look like. And the crowds. In just the last year, fuck the economy, they’ve thinned to scraps, just like the hair on his head, once full and hearty, now dispersed into diminished clumps. The Little-Top would soon become the No-Top if things didn’t pick up soon. Myron knew it, and so did greasy pigman Charlie who, doubly impressed with Javier’s acrobatic skills, wetback or not, hired him to take over Myron’s place center-stage.

The Little-Top was always on tour, south in the winter, north in the summer, smalltown to smalltown Monday through Wednesday, set up on Thursday (rain or shine), with shows running all weekend long, provided the local yokels saddled up their Durangos and showed up. Myron again wondered how he could possibly keep up now that Crazy Javi was running foolish circles around him. Years of injuries had slowed him to molasses, helped only by his new addiction, credit to friend and foe all rolled up into one. Rolled up like a stinking burrito, he added to his jumbled thoughts, peeking over at It’s a Wonderful Life and the black and white murk clearing the way for Clarence’s note to George inside Tom Sawyer: Remember, no man is a failure who has friends…

The Mexican is my friend. If he hadn’t come through with the Oxy, I’d be six feet under now, bet your rubber nose on that…

He applied red greasepaint on his lips and cheeks in wrathful splotches, jagged with no attention to contour or detail. On splotched the green around his eyes, used in the past to accentuate, now to inadvertently alarm--draw attention to the man he’s become in this moment, slate Oxy-cleaned of airs and postures, the empty-headed routine he’s clung to all these years snuffed out. It was time for Myron ‘The Juggling Jester’ Higginbottom to shine, to put his real self out there for today’s world to bear witness to.

He shifted his bulk, the creaking barstool beneath him meant to fit a man in shape. The bones in his knees and back howled, graveyard hounds, near-unbearable pain resounding across pneumatized bone and threadbare muscles. He needed more. Now. He could hear them. People, shuffling into the tent, draft-beer voices and Timberland footfalls packing the bleachers. His heart began to pound, gummy blood erupting in and out of it, a compressed stress-ball bubble. An audience! Worry rained down on him, deluged him. The first pill hadn’t kicked in yet! Or maybe it did? Oxy worked diabolically, greedily, gripping the user’s nervous system like sharp, puckering tentacles.

“Hey wetback…got any more candy?” He couldn’t face his frenemy and retched at his own monstrously colored reflection instead. Javier’s response was silent…but satisfactory, red satin fingers gifting a pearl-white pill upon the chalky, countertop residue: a lifesaving buoy in an ocean of desperation.

“Pay me after the show,” Javier said. “I need to finish getting ready. Is almost showtime.” He disappeared behind the sheet-acting-as-a-curtain separating their lives.

Myron didn’t thank him, instead he hastily crushed the pill into a gritty powder and shored it up his nose. With no second thought, he licked the countertop clean then washed away the bitter taste with three more gulps of Wild Turkey. In this moment of bodily vandalism, Javier billowed through the curtain donned in full-on gear, a brand-spanking new, exploding-with-primary-colors costume, it too conceivably pinched from some small-potatoes mom & pop shop. A string of drool descended from Myron’s gaping mouth, red-stained and quivering undetected as he gazed in jealous awe at the Mexican’s finely applied makeup. Fucking migrant had mad juggling skills, the dexterities of an athlete, and would you just look at that top-notch paint job, completed in mere minutes: a scary-slash-funny amalgamation that would in some way, Myron knew, enrich every emotional role he shifted into.

As Javier exited the trailer, the crowd noise loud, Myron brushed a few more unconventional colors on his face: olive drab, pumice, sienna brown. A massive turd at once appeared in the mirror before him, something King Kong might shit out: a warped bastardization of his former guise. But…pill number two, plus all that extra goodness on the countertop, and shots four through six, were all starting to make his reflection look good. As good as The Juggling Jester in his prime. Maybe even better. It was as if Myron had somehow retained Javier’s fine makeup skills to produce the best possible version of The Juggling Jester.

Look at me! I look just like I did thirty years ago! Young! Full of vigor! And that paint job, wow! Watch out Javi…here I come!

Finally, fucking finally, Myron Higginbottom felt good, great even, just like he did all those years ago. He smiled at the perfection smiling back at him from the mirror, brimming with a level of confidence he hadn’t felt in years.

Good enough, and confident enough, to start juggling knives again.

He donned his curly blue wig and cockscomb hat, ineffectively wiped the sweat and makeup from his palms on his costume, then winked at the young, healthy, handsome clown staring deceitfully back at him from the mirror.

Showtime.

***

The bannerlike stripes of the Little-Top tent whipped in the breezy air, giant ribbons snapping at Myron as he made his approach across the dirt field. His eyes burned and he rubbed them, ruddy swirls of makeup dyeing his hands gray, painting the whites of his eyes red and black. He moved through clown alley, listening to the crowd applauding, screaming ‘Crazy Javi’ in unison as the migrant juggled bowling pins atop a unicycle. Burp and Hiccup, the Littleman Twins, were performing mini-cartwheels around Javi as he adeptly circled the ring.

Myron opened the rusted storage locker filled with supplies and grabbed six rubber baseballs. He gave them a practice juggle without fault. Brimming with confidence, and feeling no pain, he peeked out at the crowd. His heart galloped. Wow! The audience was huge for the Little-Top: a few hundred people packing the bleachers shoulder-to-shoulder like hardcovers on a bookshelf. It’d been years since ‘The Juggling Jester’ performed before a crowd this big.

And the painkillers! They were finally doing their magic! He felt happier than ever, super-thrilled to be--

…in an altered state of mind…

--the performer he once was, looking and feeling great, brimming with confidence, God-bless Oxycontin, God-bless Wild Turkey. A celebrated entertainer who regaled crowds night after night, juggling six knives at once and never once injuring himself…until the day he did. Only then did greasy pigman Charlie demand he switch to something he couldn’t lose a finger doing. It’s either that, or sayonara Mo-ron. Your choice.

Without second thought, Myron shelved the baseballs and trotted unsteadily back to his trailer. Fuck the baseballs, and fuck those stinking monkeys! Pain? What pain? It was gone, unmistakable now that he was hunkering down and rifling under his bed in search of the burlap satchel there, inside, six matching chef’s knives, props once an integral part of his performance. He washed them in the sink, nicking his ring finger and not feeling it all: the pain nor the trickle of blood that mixed into the makeup on his fingers. He tied the satchel with the knives to the end of a broomstick, then shouldered the bindle hobo-style and wobbled effortlessly back through clown alley.

Javier was still on the unicycle, but instead of juggling bowling pins was now blowing an airhorn, Myron’s cue to hit the ring. The skit they’d practiced had Myron juggling six baseballs while Crazy Javi circled him, trading them two at a time. It was a crowd-pleaser everywhere they went, and an ideal lead-in to Myron’s comical one-clown-two-monkey routine.

Myron took a deep breath, ready, willing, and feeling able. Thank you Oxy and thank you Wild Turkey, that match made in reprobate heaven. He promenaded into the ring waving his makeshift bindle-full-of-sharp-surprises like a war flag, catching Javier’s face as it went from grins to grimaces, greasy pigman Charlie on the sidelines, scowling his disapproval at Myron’s unexpected improvisation. The crowd, on the other hand, applauded and howled at the unhinged-looking vagrant-clown who wasted no time in winning them over by shoving the unicycle-riding clown out of the spotlight. Javier gave it a good go, but lost his balance and tumbled awkwardly to the ground, much to the delight of the crowd.

They love me…

The Littleman Twins launched their little statures into damage-control mode, somersaulting alongside Myron like wayward tumbleweeds. Myron grimaced as strings of still-wet makeup bled across his eyes…through which he saw a few small faces in the crowd shifting from happiness to confusion, mirth to uncertainty. Myron tore open the burlap bag and removed the half-dozen eight-inch steak-knives, damp steel unpolished (and unsharpened) since last year still glinting in the swirling spotlights. From the outer edges of the ring, pigman Charlie watched on, dumbly absorbed and rightfully curious as to what Myron was up to.

The crowd loves me, so why not Charlie?

Myron smiled, then closed his eyes, and in his mind’s eye recalled his younger-and-much-more-entertaining-self charming crowds nearly a thousand strong, the genuine smiles on their faces testament to his former abilities…and in his mind’s eye he retained those abilities once again and before Javi could stop him, all three spotlights drilled Myron, clarifying the sweat on his face as it ran through the thickly applied, messily applied makeup, more of it now running into his eyes as he tried to blink it away, one of the spotlights hitting him square in the pupils, blinding him…but the Oxy spoke in unison with the alcohol: it’s all muscle memory! He could juggle rubber baseballs with his eyes closed, so why not knives? But, with his eyes closed, he wouldn’t be able to see the smiles on the hundreds of people watching him--

…some of them aren’t smiling anymore…some of the children look scared, some of the adults too, everyone, visibly uncertain if the sudden spectacle before them was part of the program…

--so he squeezed his eyes shut and went for it, the knives going up in a semi-circle, following each other back down, into his left hand, tossed to the right, back up and back down, over and over in a smooth and continuous motion, wash, rinse, repeat, simple as that.

I’m doing it! Sweat and makeup trickled down his face but it didn’t stop his Oxy-tuned brain from hearing the crowd, multitudes of laughter littered with random gasps of anticipatory shock—

…they love me, I’m  juggling six eight-inch knives, they love me, I’m the Juggling Jester…

--abruptly moving into half laughs of the raucous variety, half gasps of authentic shock—

…I’m doing it, I haven’t dropped a knife, muscle memory baby, no more pain, no more pain, NO MORE PAIN…

No knives hit the ground. He did it! Was still doing it, transformed back into the venerated clown he once was, miles away from the pathetic jester he’d become. Up and down and up and down the knives soared and landed, soared and landed—

…they love me…

--until someone, Crazy fucking Javi he imagined, leapt in and stole away his glory. The grip on the collar of Myron’s costume was strong, yanking him four steps backwards and down onto his platform ass. He could hear the crowd collectively gasp and murmur…could hear the knives hitting the hard soil around him, one-two-three-four.

Myron open his eyes and through webs of paint beheld a quieted crowd, close to three hundred men, women, and children, faces aghast with the unsympathetic reality of what they just witnessed, mere seconds ago prettily painted with curious merriment for the odd clown in the triple spotlight, now forever traumatized by the monster that same clown had become--the monster their minds would forever fear.

Still seated, still staring at the fearful crowd, Myron’s besieged mind could not comprehend what was happening.

Javi appeared before him, hiding a wicked smile only Myron could see. “Cabron…you okay?” He winked.

Myron scowled and snarled, “Why did you stop me? I didn’t drop any knives!”

Javi looked at Myron’s hands. “That, you didn’t.”

Myron looked down at his hands. His Oxy-sharpened ears had heard four knives fall to the ground. He again muttered, “I didn’t drop any knives…”

He hadn’t. There was still one in each hand. But somewhere in the early seconds of his improvised act, he started flipping them so that the blades landed in his grip, dull but still sharp enough to cause serious, pain-free gashes, thank you Oxycontin, thank you Wild Turkey. One into the other, over and over, too many to count, up and down and up and down, deepening the numbed wounds into bone-glinting chasms, blood pooling in his hands like stigmata, red corkscrews cascading across his forearms, spatter staining his threadbare costume and paint-massacred face.

Myron ‘The Juggling Jester’ Higginbottom could do nothing but sit in place and stare at the horrorstruck faces promising to blame ‘The Juggling Jester’ for the fear of clowns that would haunt them for the rest of their lives.

***

The greasy pigman Charlie, with Javier’s assistance, shoved Myron back into his trailer. The disgraced clown crumpled into a heap on the floor, then looked up at the pair, Charlie snarling and pointing, “Pack up your shit, Mo-ron, and get your stupid fucking ass out of here!”

The door slammed and Myron sat alone and pathetic, staring at his hands and the knife blades still clutched in each. He squeezed. Blood spurted, but…still no pain!

He climbed to his feet and looked in the mirror. Smiled. His makeup…it was still perfection, expertly applied, the skin beneath devoid of wrinkles and moles and fatty deposits--a young, talented, witty, funny and pain-free Myron ‘The Juggling Jester’ Higginbottom, at your service. Still holding the knives, he danced a little dance in his trailer, pleased to be the strapping young lad he once was.

The audience, they were scared of you, of your FACE!

His breath ran suddenly short. A twitch of pain emerged, first in his hands, then elsewhere as it rode his re-emerging nerves from head to toe. No, no, no! He stumbled back to the mirror, the TV alongside it now playing Lon Chaney’s Phantom of the Opera. His face…it was still young, the makeup impeccably mirroring his facial acrobatics.

“The crowd! They loved me!” he shouted at his reflection.

His reflection answered: No they didn’t! They were terrified of you!

With this, more pain and the sudden realization that the Oxy was starting to wear off. He looked back into the mirror. The fine features of his perfect makeup began to run and swirl, like a rainbow of oil on saltwater. He rubbed his eyes, begged out loud for his former self to return, but his altered state was already leaving him, FUCK YOU OXY AND FUCK YOU WILD TURKEY!, bestowing upon his stricken gaze the colorful slaughter he actually made of his face.

“No, no, no, no, NOOOO…”

He looked at the gored pits of his hands, bloody and congealing, knives still slackly clutched in each.

Tears burst from his eyes, and in this moment decided that today would be the final appearance of the Juggling Jester.

***

“He leave yet?”

Javier looked at Charlie, shook his head.

“It’s your trailer now. Kick his squatting ass out of there.”

Javier nodded, then felt around in his pocket for another pill. This time he would give him Oxy, instead of LSD, one for the road if he was up for it. It would be worth the expense to be rid of the miserable old geezer.

He opened the door to the trailer, looked inside, then back at Charlie.

“Boss? You’re gonna want to see this.”

Charlie trundled up the stairs and peered in alongside Javier.

They’d hoped it was makeup spattered everywhere, but knew better. It was blood. Myron lay in a puddle of it, still breathing, blood belching with each gory exhale. His face was gone, both fists still gripping the knives, covered in blood, threads of flesh dangling, the makeup-blood-coated mask of skin laying alongside him, staring up from the floor, accusing Charlie and Javi.

Charlie grimaced, speaking his only thought out loud: “What the fuck was that with his makeup tonight?”

Javi knew the truth, but kept it to himself, and instead replied, “It was the Juggling Jester’s final appearance.

The End

In the Age of Reptiles

By

Matthew Aaron Gorman

The billboard rose like a monolith from the high desert, briefly blotting out the sun as it came into view. We’d been over the state line into Wyoming for nearly an hour, and it was the most vibrant thing I’d seen so far, towering high above the earthy tones of the perma-tanned landscape that stretched into the distant horizon.

In a brilliant Sea Foam Blue, it heralded the coming exit as the “Last Chance Gas and Food for Fifty Miles”. It was probably a line of bullshit, but you never knew.

Yellow sunbursts at the bottom of the sign advertised a dinosaur statue park and a pit of live rattlesnakes for the whole family to enjoy. Just another in the line of infinite tourist traps scattered along the interstates of America.

It seemed as good a place to stop as any.

“Pit stop?” I said, turning to Janie and nodding at the sign as we passed. She was sitting with her bare feet in the crook of the open passenger side window, humming along with the radio.

“Mm-hmm, yeah, I gotta pee,” she said in a lazy monotone. We’d polished off a rather sizeable bogie a little ways back and we were both still feeling the effects.

“Well, I’m absolutely famished,” I said.

We took the exit and winded our way down a serpentine stretch of asphalt that doubled back upon itself more than once as it made its way into the basin of a shallow valley. There, nestled at the bottom like a jeweled oasis amidst the reddish-brown of desert sand, was our humble destination.

There really wasn’t much to it: a fill-up station with four retro-style gas pumps that appeared shiny and new, a low structure that looked to be a general store or perhaps a gift shop, and at the far end of a vast parking lot, a 50’s-style diner complete with a stainless steel façade and big red letters declaring it as “Lulu’s”.

And there behind the structures, where a low blowing wind caressed the valley floor, kicking up swirling clouds of red dust, stood the dinosaurs. A half a dozen fiberglass forms, life-sized and painted up in shades of Russet Brown and Forest Green, like the frozen remnants of a prehistoric age. I spied an enormous Brontosaurus, its head held high against the cloudless sky, a spiny-plated Stegosaurus, and a menacing T-Rex making up the closest group of these giant reptilian effigies.

I found the T-Rex a little unnerving. It was clearly meant to be a fun and happy attraction, but there was something about the old model dinosaur, and the way that it stared down upon us with its darkly painted eyes, that remained truly monstrous to me, so uniquely terrifying in everything that it represented. A specter of primordial brutality, of merciless power, of unflinching resolve. An ancient and soulless instrument of savagery plucked free from the sands of time.

Or perhaps it was merely the weed playing tricks upon my brain. I shook the strange notion from my head and refocused my efforts upon the mission at hand. Janie needed to use the facilities, and I needed something warm to fill my “starving” belly.

The entire place looked deserted. There were no cars in the parking lot, the fill-up station stood unattended, and a “CLOSED” sign hung in the window of the little store.

“Looks like we might be out of luck, Babe,” I said, my stomach growling in protest.

“No, I think there might be some people in the diner,” Janie said, shielding her eyes against the sunlight as she peered from the open window. “It’s hard to tell from here.”

We drove closer and parked in front of the diner. It turned out that Janie had been correct, and I could see that a handful of people were seated inside. It appeared that the restaurant, at least, was open for business.

As Janie slipped her shoes on and we stepped from the car, I took a moment to admire my new wife and her tranquil beauty, the sun reflecting from the highlights in her strawberry-blonde hair as she turned to address me with a sleepy smile.

“You get us a table, I gotta find the restroom and take care of biz-ness,” she said, both index fingers pointed towards the front of her jeans.

“What? You don’t want to go check out the rattlesnakes first?”

“Ewww,” Janie giggled in mock horror, scrunching up that perfect little nose of hers. “Inside, Mister. Move it!”

A bell chimed above the door as we entered, announcing our presence. A group of men seated at the diner’s counter turned to look, and another in a booth lowered one corner of his newspaper to inspect us as well. All of them were middle-aged and appeared to be your standard local types, though the empty parking lot made it unclear to me as to how they’d all arrived.

Behind the counter, an elderly waitress stood staring back at us, a pot of coffee in hand. She stood motionless, as if she’d been caught red-handed in some improper act and was unsure of how best to proceed.

All of them seemed genuinely surprised to see a pair of newcomers.

“Uh…howdy now,” the waitress said, her eyes darting back and forth between the menfolk as if seeking their assistance. “Y’all just sit wherever you please, and I’ll fetch a couple menus.”

“Might I use your restroom first?” Janie asked.

“Of course, dear, it’s right through the back there,” the waitress said, pointing with her free hand. She stood there unmoving for a moment longer before finally beginning to freshen the coffees of the men at the counter.

As I seated myself in a booth by the window, awaiting my wife’s return, I saw the waitress whispering to the men.

I shrugged it off and took a minute to register my surroundings. I was immediately struck by the resolute cleanliness of the place. Everywhere I looked, the chrome highlights and the steel stems of counter stools appeared polished and sparkling, and the subtle hint of some lemon-scented disinfectant wafted from the tabletop.

The place itself felt more inviting than the people.

I tried to push the somewhat icy reception from my mind, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that Janie and I were now the center of attention, even though the men at the counter had all turned back around, and the man in the booth had gone back to his paper. I chalked it up to your everyday pot-induced paranoia, but that “explanation” didn’t sit too well with me.

Even with no one looking, I felt as though there were eyes upon me.

After a few minutes, the waitress approached my booth, having relinquished her coffee pot for a pair of menus. In keeping with the spirit of the 50’s theme, she was clad in a yellow, polyester waitress’s uniform complete with a frilly white apron in front. She wore a pinned-on plastic nametag, and I took note that the name upon it read “Ruthie” and not the diner’s eponymous Lulu.

“And how are we, today?” Ruthie asked, smiling at me as she laid the menus down. A strange sense of sadness hovered over her that seemed to belie her efforts at congeniality.

“Quite well, and yourself?”

“Oh, we’re all doing just fine and dandy here,” she said. “That sure is one pretty girl you came in with. The two of you married?’

“Yes, ma’am,” I told her. “That’s my wife, Janie, using your facilities, and I’m David Holcomb. We’re on our honeymoon right now, in fact. Decided to travel across the country and see the sights. We’re on to Yellowstone next.”

“Well, isn’t that just wonderful, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Holcomb. I’m Ruthie Evans,” she said, the smile growing upon her face. “And I’ll tell you what, for my money, there’s nothing more precious than a pair of newlyweds in love. It’s a blessed thing to make your vows before God, too, what with all these young folks living in sin these days.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that our wedding had been a purely secular affair, or that we’d been fucking for ages.

“Well, we certainly try our best not to sin,” I said.

“See that you don’t. There’s a fiery place waiting for all of those who do,” she said, the smile fading from her lips.

“So they say,” I replied with a half-hearted chuckle. I wasn’t much one for religion or religious nuts for that matter.

“They say it ‘cause it’s true. There ain’t no other reason to say it,” she said, her tone growing serious.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, figuring that it was probably best to humor her at this point.

“I’ll give you some time to decide,” she said, never regaining her smile before leaving the table.

This odd exchange had left me ill at ease, and my paranoia was beginning to take another turn for the worst. I decided that there was something very off about this place.

So lost was I in troubled thought that when Janie slid into the seat across from me, I nearly leapt from my skin.

“Easy there, killer,” she said, noticing my jumpiness. “’Tis but I, your loving and devoted wife.”

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s just this place. There’s something strange going on around here, don’t you think?”

“Well, the restroom smelled like death, that’s for sure,” Janie said, lowering her voice to a whisper. “And it looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years.”

“That’s really funny,” I said. “I was just thinking about how clean the whole place looked.”

“You know, it’s weird, I thought the exact same thing when we first came in, but look around you, it’s really not.”

I looked and saw that Janie was right. What had only minutes before appeared pristine and polished to me now seemed anything but. The chrome and steel were smudged and tarnished, the floor cracked and dirty with several of its tiles missing altogether, and the faux leather booths were splitting at their seams. Even the table beneath my hands, which had not only looked but had smelled so immaculate just a short while ago, now felt sticky to the touch, its surface marred by stains.

“What the hell?” I said, feeling thoroughly confused by the apparent transformation.

“I know, right?” Janie said. “I’m thinking maybe this strain’s a bit stronger than we thought.”

While it was true that in my younger days, I had undoubtedly experienced the typically mild hallucinatory effects so often touted with marijuana usage, these days Janie and I were well-seasoned and habitual users, so her theory seemed rather unlikely.

“I don’t know, I think there’s more to it than that. There’s sort of a vibe in here, and it doesn’t feel all that friendly,” I said.

“We could always just leave.”

I thought about it and almost agreed, but the rumbling of my stomach won out in the end. “Well, she already brought the menus so let’s just get a little food in us before we get the hell out of Dodge, okay?”

“Okay, sure,” Janie said. “I’m feeling pretty hungry now myself.”

Ruthie returned shortly to take our order. I chose the ham and cheese omelet with a side of toast and Janie asked for a slice of warm cherry pie, to which the old waitress beamed and said, “Oh, you’re just the sweetest little thing, ain’t you?”

But even as she smiled, Ruthie retained that disconsolate air about her, as if she were fighting back tears or some anguished cry that might erupt from her at any moment.

When she left our table, she headed back behind the counter and then disappeared into the kitchen area. I hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of a cook through the pass window since we’d arrived and wondered if Ruthie was back there making everything herself.

As we waited for our food to arrive, Janie and I sat staring at one another from across the booth, finding ourselves at a loss for words for the first time in our relationship. It was clear that each of us was eager to be done with this place and get back upon the open road as soon as possible.

The awkward silence was broken when one of the men sitting at the countertop began to speak.

“I imagine ol’ Stanley ought to be back soon,” he said.

“Where’d he go and get off to this time, anyhow?” the man seated next to him asked.

“Oh, where in the hell ya think? Off tending to them damn rattlesnakes like he always done,” the third man at the counter said. “Always had a thing for them reptiles, that one.”

The man seated in the booth bent back one corner of his newspaper to chime in as well. “Don’t know why he even bothers, they just as dead as everything else ‘round here.”

“Habit, I suppose,” said the first man, completing the chain.

I wasn’t sure as to the intent behind this whole exchange of theirs, but it felt as though it was designed for us to hear.

Was this some odd attempt at intimidation? I wondered.

A group of crusty locals determined to strike fear into the hearts of two unassuming passersby?

And who was this Stanley they were all talking about?

“Yep. Ol’ Stanley sure will be pleased to see some new faces ‘round here,” the first man continued. “It’s been quite the while.”

“Decades more than likely,” the man next to him said.

“Hard to tell ‘round here,” the third man said.

Janie gave me her ‘what the fuck?’ look. “New faces?” she said, her voice once again relegated to a whisper. “Are they talking about us?”

“I’m not sure but I think so,” I said. “It seems like they’re trying to mess with us for some reason.”

Unlike my wife, I said this loud enough to be heard.

A jolt of fear shot through me as I did. They seemed a sorry bunch, with tubby pot bellies and graying hair, but there were several of them and their spirit felt mean.

“Shouldn’t we just get the hell out of here then?” Janie asked, her brow knit with concern.

“Oh, you pay them boys no mind,” Ruthie said, appearing tableside from seemingly nowhere. “Nothing but rascals, the whole lot of ‘em.”

Janie and I both gave a start, neither of us having seen the waitress’s approach.

“My my, you two are just a couple of nervous Nellies, now ain’t ya?” Ruthie said, setting our meals down in front of us. “A hot meal’ll be the thing to fix you both up good.”

I noticed a bright red spot on the front of Ruthie’s formerly flawless uniform and reasoned that she must have met with some difficulty while plating Janie’s cherry pie.

As she removed two sets of rolled up flatware from her apron and set one down next to each of our meals, Ruthie leaned in closer and said, “But y’all eat up quickly, you hear? You don’t want to go spending too much time ‘round here.”

“What are you doing, Ruthie?” the man in the booth asked her in an unsettling singsong, still but a single cantankerous eye peering out from behind his paper.

“They’re a sweet young couple who’ve pledged their love before God Almighty, and it ain’t too late for them!” Ruthie shot back, the stain on the front of her uniform growing inexplicably larger.

“Stanley ain’t gonna like it much if they get on before he come back,” one of the men at the counter said.

“And he’s liable to place blame where blame is due,” another added, to which the other men all seemed to nod in agreement.

“You kids pay these old fools no mind,” Ruthie said, her face overcome by a strange pallor. The bright red stain down the front of her was now the size of a frisbee. “Y’all just go on and eat up now.”

Whatever weird scenario was playing out here was not enough to quell my appetite, one that had only been exacerbated by our recent use of cannabis. And in stark contrast to the now dismal environment, the omelet before me appeared hot and delicious. Not to mention that the sooner we ate, the sooner we could leave this place and never look back. So, with Ruthie still hovering about our table, I picked up my knife and fork and prepared to dig in.

As my knife slid into the omelet, something seemed to bulge beneath it. There was a firmness to whatever the utensil had encountered. I stopped what I was doing and stared down at my plate. Something was moving beneath the fluffy outer layer of egg.

Unnerved and yet somehow unable to stave off my natural curiosity, I used the tines of my fork to slowly peel back the top layer of omelet.

I was not prepared for what I saw.

There, covered in a golden slick of well-executed baveuse, was what appeared to be a baby rattlesnake. It raised up its diamond-shaped head and issued a silent hiss, its rattle-clad tail thrashing about in the slop of half-cooked yolk and albumen, attempting to issue its deadly warning.

As terrifying as the tiny snake was upon its own, being as unexpected as it was and of venomous nature, there was also something very wrong with it.

Its eyes were but a pair of milky cataracts, and its skin looked shriveled and old. In several places, the scaly flesh had fallen away completely to reveal the sinuous skeletal structure beneath. In every conceivable fashion, but for its very movement, the snake appeared to be deceased.

Janie screamed. I recoiled in horror, my back slamming hard against the booth behind me. I was terrified and utterly confused, with little idea of what to do. I couldn’t understand why this was happening ¾ or even what was happening.

“I’m sorry!” Ruthie cried, the panic rising in her voice. “I didn’t think that it would start this soon!”

“What the hell is going on?!” I managed to shout, my stomach roiling as I gazed upon the squirming monstrosity before me. I pushed the plate hard into the wall as the tiny snake prepared to strike, the porcelain shattering in two as it struck against the bottom of the window ledge, its occupant tumbling from the wreckage and slithering off the table onto the floor below.

“Y’all need to leave right now, before it’s too late!” Ruthie said, her voice now shaking with fear. “Before he comes back and claims your precious little souls!”

I stared up in shock and saw that the stain now covered the entire front of her, and that her skin was the color of a blood-drained corpse.

“He’ll send you to the fire for this, Ruthie!” the man in the booth roared up at her, dropping his newspaper to the table. I could see now that his other eye was missing completely, nothing more than a mangled cavity beneath a glistening curtain of blood. And as he turned his head to yell at Ruthie, I saw the back of his skull was missing completely.

One by one, the men at the counter turned upon their stools and I saw now that each had suffered a similar fate to the man in the booth. Freshly bleeding wounds resembling bullet holes peppered each man’s frame at random intervals, too numerous and in locations far too vital for any of these men to still be among the living.

“Stanley’s gonna want them souls, Ruthie,” the first man said, sliding off his stool and beginning to advance.

“And when he hears you tried to help ‘em, he’ll be none too happy,” the second man said, likewise dropping to the floor upon a pair of dead legs.

“Best we just hold them both here ‘til Stanley gets back,” the third man said as he joined his accursed comrades.

“Y’all just stay back now!” Ruthie said as she turned to face them. I could now see that a large portion of her back was missing, leaving behind a craterous wound from which the splintered length of her spine was visible beneath a layer of quickly spreading blood.  She, like the rest of them, was clearly deceased.

Janie’s screams still filled my ears, and I realized it was because she had not yet stopped. Fighting through my fear and confusion, I leapt from my seat and pulled my wife from the booth as the undead snake went for her ankle, the strike barely missing its mark and embedding its fangs into the upholstery.

The three dead men had pushed Ruthie from their path and were almost upon us, while the fourth rose from his booth, seeming to peer out the window with his remaining eye.

“Well, would you look at that? Here comes ol’ Stanley now,” he said.

I spun, holding tightly onto Janie, as three sets of dead arms reached out for us and managed to knock them away with one well-timed shoulder. As they sought to regroup, we made a beeline for the exit and pushed our way through the swinging glass door into the blessed sunlight beyond.

My mind reeling with panic, and my body supercharged with adrenaline, I fumbled through my pockets for the keys to the car. I was expecting the ghoulish cadre to come spilling from the diner at any moment. But after a few heart-pounding seconds had passed, it became clear to me that, for reasons unknown, the dead men had abandoned their pursuit. I could see their twisted faces glaring back at me through the glass, but something appeared to be holding them at bay.

Instead, something far worse was making its way towards us.

A lone figure was approaching from the direction of the dinosaur park, lurching forward step by step in a staggered gait. As it drew closer, I saw that it had a pistol holstered upon its snakeskin belt and a shotgun slung over one slouching shoulder.

I also saw that it had no head. There was simply nothing but empty air above a mangled jawbone, which hung limply from its drooping neck like an afterthought.

“And this must be Stanley,” I said aloud, feeling all the while that I must be losing my mind.

I found the car keys in my jeans pocket and sprung into action, trying to maintain my sanity for Janie’s sake. I unlocked the passenger side door, yanked it open, and practically pushed her into the seat.

The headless, shambling dead thing known as Stanley drew ever nearer as I made my way around the car to the driver’s side. And as I opened the door and climbed inside, I watched in utter dismay as this seemingly sentient cadaver without a head of which to speak, let alone a set of eyes, dropped the shotgun from its shoulder, racked a shell into the pipe, and took perfect aim at my front windshield.

I managed to start up the engine and peel out in reverse as the shotgun went off, watching terror-stricken as the blast took off my driver’s side mirror and sent it skittering across the asphalt.

As Stanely took aim again, I spun the car around completely and floored the gas pedal, testing the true limits of a Hyundai Sonata as it tore away across the massive parking lot. I kept waiting for my back window to explode with another blast from Stanley’s shotgun, but the impact never came.

I kept the pedal to the floor, never letting up for a second as we fled from the waking nightmare in our rearview mirror. And when at last I thought that we’d made enough distance from the gun-toting dead man to finally feel safe, I let out a sigh of relief so powerful that it caused my entire body to shudder.

Near the top of the winding road that led back to the interstate, I chanced to look back. It seemed impossible, but I could make out no sign of the buildings, the gas pumps, or even the model dinosaurs in the valley below.

There was nothing there but the swirling red tides of desert sand.

The End

Just Outside Our Windows, Deep Inside Our Walls

By

Brian Hodge

Somewhere in our early teen years it’s inevitable that our parents become sources of great embarrassment to us, held accountable for everything they are and aren’t, could’ve been or should never be.

Before things can get to that stage, though, it sometimes goes the other direction. We realize, even if we can’t articulate it with the same sharpness with which we sense it, that once the bloom is off the earliest years of childhood, we stand revealed as something our parents are mortified to have created.

I always knew a lot more about the latter than the former.

***

It was spring when she moved into the house next door. It must have been spring, because my window was open, and, directly across from it, so was hers, and had been for at least a day, as though the neighbors were expecting her and had to flush the stale winter air out of the room or maybe the entire uppermost floor.

Everything there was to know about life on the third floor, I understood it inside and out by this point, and had for over two years.

I knew she was there to stay because she sang. Not at first, though. At first there was just bumping and thudding, the sounds of luggage and boxes, and three voices, their words too faint to make out, but only two were familiar. I knew the sounds of my neighbors. This new female voice sounded higher and younger than the other, entirely unfamiliar, although for all that, it seemed to me that she sounded just as tired.

She only sang later, when she thought she was alone.

Whatever the words were, it wasn’t a happy-sounding song, not the kind of song you might hear sung by a group of people crowded around my parents’ grand piano downstairs and someone who knew how to play it. I listened awhile, then dropped to the floor and crept like a spy toward the window until I was underneath it, careful not to make any noise because she still had no way to know I was there, and I didn’t want her to until I’d had a chance for a closer listen and to figure out what she was up to. In the way her voice started and stopped and started again, as though she were pausing between each line or two, the song seemed to require effort. It made me think of a song sung in tribute of someone who has died, only not in a way that sounded, in my word at the time, churchy.

I popped up into the window only when she seemed to have quit, not so much finishing the song as abandoning it, and called to her across the space between our houses: “What’s that you were singing?”

Until now, all I’d seen of her was a silhouette, a thin shape moving around in a room and beyond the reach of the sun. But now she came to the window and smacked her elbows down onto the sill and scowled across at me. Her straight brown hair swept past both wrists as if to whisk her agitation at me, and one hand darted up to grab the bottom of the window and flexed as though she were going to slam it down, but then she kept looking at me and stopped herself, although when she spoke she sounded no less furious.

“Have you been there the whole time?”

“I was here first,” I said. “I’ve always been here first.”

“Well … you should announce yourself, is what you should do.” She told me this as if she suspected she might be speaking to an idiot. She looked very much older to me, twelve or maybe as old as thirteen, and this hurt deeply, because it meant she must have been very worldly and knowledgeable when it came to idiots. “It’s the polite thing to do.”

I told her I was sorry, then asked about the song again.

“I’m sure it wouldn’t mean anything to you. I’m sure you don’t speak the language.”

“What language?”

“The language the song’s in.” Now she sounded convinced beyond all doubt of my idiocy. Then her scowl lifted and she appeared to relent in her harsher appraisals. “It’s not from here.” After another moment, “It’s not for here.”

“Oh,” I said, as if this made sense to me. “Then what are you doing here?”

She seemed not to have heard me even though I knew she had, and I started to feel bad for asking it at all. While at first I’d found her not very nice to look at, I began to wonder if I wasn’t wrong, because now it seemed I’d only been misled by a trick of light and her annoyance. I wondered, too, if she might jump from the window, or lean forward and let herself fall. In that other world three floors down, the neighbors’ house was ringed with square slabs of stone to walk on. Nobody could survive a fall like that.

“I draw,” I told her, volunteering a distraction to save her life. “Want to see?”

I’d sneaked up some old ones, at least, even if I couldn’t make new ones.

“Later, maybe,” she said, and pulled away. Like before, her hand went to the bottom of the window, lingering a few moments, but as she moved back into the room she again left it open.

That night after the lights were out I lay in my bed and imagined her doing the same. I fought to stay awake as long as I could in case there were other songs to hear, or a repeat performance of the first one. Barring that, it seemed possible that she might cry instead, because that’s what I’d done the first night they’d moved me up here, but just before I fell asleep I wondered if the reason I hadn’t heard anything from her was because she was lying in the dark listening for some sound out of me.

***

The distant future I imagined for myself must have been inspired by something I’d seen on TV, which helped assure me that it was possible to turn my fascinations into a life that could take me far away, where I would be loved by thousands. For what will become obvious reasons, I wanted to be a magician.

I would spend many hours planning what my stage show would be like, and soon grew bored with the idea that I would merely escape from deadly traps and make elephants disappear. This admission seemed to unlock something deep inside, an openness to possibilities that would be mine alone to explore.

While I don’t believe they came while I was asleep, they were more than just flights of imagination. I began to experience long afternoons of waking dreams in which I would take stage assistants, full of smiles and trust and with no thought of doing anything other than surrendering to my will, and I would lock them into cabinets. The blades would come next, whirring and rasping through the cabinets and cutting them into four, five, even six sections, which I would separate with a flourish before moving on to the next. It would take a while, because my audience and I could never be satisfied with my rendering just one assistant into pieces. That would only be the same old trick.

Once the assistants were in pieces and scattered around the stage, smiling and waving and tapping their feet from the separate remnants of the cabinets, I would begin to reassemble them, although never the same way they’d been. They were meant for better things. I would start simply, swapping an assistant’s arms for his legs, and vice versa, or grafting her grinning head onto the middle of her body. Then, after I had basked in the applause for that trick, I would combine the parts of one assistant with those of another, and finally give one or two several more parts than they’d started with, creating human spiders, which would leave others armless and legless, to wriggle across the stage like caterpillar prey.

But the waking dreams of my performance would always end with the assistants dancing like puppets on the stage to prove to the audience how happy they were with their new bodies, and that whatever dramas had played out a few minutes earlier were just theatrics. And so everyone could go home safe and secure in the knowledge that sometimes harm was nothing more than an illusion.

***

Her name was Roni, I found out a couple days later, which was short for Veronica, and by now short for Ronnie, too. She claimed that there had been a time, lasting for years, when she wanted to be a boy, and so Ronnie was how she had insisted on signing her name, writing it over and over when she was alone, just her and a pen and a piece of paper, and she didn’t have to tell me why.

But while I understood the business with the paper, I didn’t understand why she would need to in the first place. Why would she want to be a boy? I had to ask her this many times before she gave me any kind of an answer.

“You’re a boy,” she said from her window. “What have you killed?”

Bugs, I told her. And fish, because I remembered catching some once with a grandfather, and we hadn’t thrown them back, so I supposed that had to count. And a couple of birds, when I had gotten to play with the pellet rifle a friend had been given for his birthday. Those were all I could remember. Except for the other times. But it seemed like those shouldn’t count, because to really do something like that you have to mean it.

Roni seemed to be hoping for more, but before I could make up anything else, some stupid meaningless thing that wouldn’t scare her away from the window forever, she asked me another question. “Wasn’t it easier to do it because you’re a boy than it would’ve been if you weren’t?”

“I don’t know,” I told her, because I had no experience being a girl. Although, yes, I could imagine them being more squeamish about murderous activities. “I guess so. Probably.”

“Well, there you go.”

I was glad then that I wasn’t a girl, because it seemed that they talked in riddles. Then again, if I were a girl, maybe I would have understood everything she was telling me by not coming right out and saying it.

“I heard about something in school,” she said.

I nodded, and sort of remembered what that was like.

She pointed to her right, beyond the front of the houses and toward the park that our block faced. It was bright green in there now, and people were finally going there again the way they used to, little specks of color on the paths and between the trees, and every so often, when the air was just right, a laugh would carry over, and I wished I knew what was so funny.

“What I heard was that back in the winter, after Thanksgiving, three different people, on three different days, were found with their heads off,” Roni said. “It wasn’t any girl who did that. She wouldn’t even think to do it.”

“She wouldn’t?” By now I was just comfortable enough with Roni to think I might be able to get away with challenging her a little. “Who says?”

“Well, she might think it. But she’d never do it.”

“Why not?”

“We don’t have the hands for it, for one thing.” She craned her neck forward, angling to see as much of the room behind me as she could. “You’ve got windows in there, don’t you, that look out the front? And you don’t go to my school and you never seem to leave. So … did you see anything?”

For a moment I was suspicious. Maybe the police had sent her, and the next-door neighbors weren’t really her aunt and uncle. Maybe she hadn’t really come to stay with them until further notice because of … well, she hadn’t actually said anything about why. But I didn’t believe this. If the police had sent her, they would have sent her with a better lie that she could actually tell. I knew that much from TV.

“If I did see something,” I said, “what would you want to know about it?”

She turned serious, thinking, as if she hadn’t planned this far. Then she knew. “Most people would want to know why there wasn’t any blood. But what I’d rather know is if the person who did it ran away, or just walked, like it was any other day.”

This was very weird to me. “What would that matter?”

Her face became a riddle then, and she knew it, and seemed to like it that way.

“Maybe he didn’t do either,” I said. “Walk or run.”

She burst out laughing. “Well, he didn’t fly!”

I realized then how much more I liked her when she laughed. I never got to see anyone laugh any more, only hear it, and not very often, only when I was lucky. After three days this was the first time she’d laughed, too, but it didn’t seem likely to happen again any time soon. I remembered school, and how it could be bad enough at the start of the year, and she was getting here toward the end of a school year, and that couldn’t have been easy.

So I told her maybe she wouldn’t have to go to the new school if she didn’t want to, that I had a governess who came most days and, if Roni wanted, she could listen at the window. The idea met with instant disdain — not because it was a bad idea, just that the offer was meaningless.

“What’s she going to teach you that I don’t already know?”

***

I began to wish the spring away … that summer would hurry up and arrive, so the schools would lock their doors and I wouldn’t have to wait for late afternoons. While the waiting didn’t get any easier, at least as spring went on the days got longer, with more light filling the space between the houses. Even though we could lean in the windows and talk to each other any time of the night, it was better when I could see her, because otherwise she wouldn’t seem as real. She’d tell me what they are trying to teach her at school, and I’d tell her what the governess was trying to teach me, and there didn’t ever seem to be much in common, and eventually I realized something was missing.

“What about art class?” I asked. “Don’t you ever go to art?”

“Of course not. It’s middle school.”

The way she said this made it sound horrible.

“Don’t you miss it? Art class?”

“I guess. I don’t know.” She sounded as if nobody had ever told her that she could miss it.

“Could you do me a favor anyway? Could you bring back some paper for me? And pencils or something?” Crayons or colored markers seemed too much to ask for at this stage, but if this first part went well, I could get to those later.

“What kind of kid doesn’t have paper and pencils of his own? Everybody has those.” Roni appeared not to believe me, and who could blame her. “You say you have a governess. How do you do your lessons, then? How do you do your math problems?”

“I do them in front of her. I just don’t get to keep the paper and pencils. They make her take everything away when she leaves.”

Roni realized I was serious, and froze for a moment with her mouth half open and one eye half shut. No one would ever make up a thing like this. “Why?” she said, as if she’d never heard of anything so ridiculous.

“Because I draw.”

“Only you and a billion other gradeschool lower life-forms. So?”

I shut my eyes for a moment and sighed, and when I opened them, I think maybe, just for an instant, she saw someone else she’d never realized lived here.

“Are you going to help me or not?”

“I never said I wouldn’t, did I?” She blinked a few times, startled. “I’ve already got all the pencils I can ever use in this lifetime. You can have a couple of those.” She briefly disappeared from the window. “Knock yourself out.”

She took aim and sent them flipping end-over-end, across the space and through my window. Two bright yellow pencils lying on the rug, with no one to take them away. At first I didn’t dare touch them. I just wanted to look at them.

“Are you okay?” she called. “I didn’t sink one in your eye, did I?”

I turned back around and remembered to thank her. Saying thank you is very important, especially when you’re a prisoner.

“I’ve got a notebook here you can have, too. Just let me rip a few pages out first.”

It was tempting. But no.

“I’d rather have blank paper. Totally blank.” I’d waited this long. I could wait another day. “I hate lines.”

“And speaking of lines, did you ever hear the one about beggars and choosers? That’s a good one.”

“I still hate lines.”

She nodded, getting it. “They really don’t let you have paper and writing utensils of your own. They really don’t.”

I shook my head no.

“What about toilet paper?” She was smirking. But she wasn’t serious, although at first I thought she was, and she laughed. “Let me see what I can come up with,” she said, and seemed to take a new satisfaction in it now. Something wrong to do, a law to break, and if she was lucky she might even get to steal, and it must have been then that everything changed between us, and each of us didn’t just have a neighbor to pass the time with, but maybe the closest thing either of us could find to a friend.

***

She came through a couple days later, way beyond anything I believed I could hope for. I’d been thinking she would bring, at best, a few dirty sheets of unwanted paper with shoe prints on them. Instead, that evening, she popped up in her window, grinning, and when I couldn’t stand it anymore she held up an unopened package of copier paper.

“Five hundred sheets. I got it from a teacher’s supply closet,” Roni said. “Are you ever gonna owe me big time. Like maybe for the rest of eternity.”

Except then we had to deal with the problem of transferring it from her room to mine. Throwing pencils was one thing. For this, she didn’t trust her arm. I didn’t trust her arm.

“Why can’t I just bring it over under my clothes?” she said. “What are your parents going to do, search me?”

No, I told her. She’d never get through. I never had visitors, except for the governess, and there were locks. Besides, the paper may have come from downstairs, but it belonged to the upstairs world now. It could never go downstairs again.

But I had a dart gun, the kind with the suction cup tips. And I had string. And Roni found some rope, a little thicker than twine, that she could tie to the string I shot over. And a wicker basket her aunt no longer used in the garden, whose handle she could slip the rope through. By the time it got dark, I’d used the string to pull the rope back, first one end and then the other, and we’d looped it around our bedframes, like pulleys. I tied the ends together with one of the best knots I remembered from scouting, when they still used to let me go out, and then all we had to do was keep the handle from slipping along the rope and we could pull it back and forth, from room to room, all we wanted.

That’s how she sent me the paper.

It took me even longer to touch this than it did the pencils. I knew I’d be up half the night, finding the best possible hiding place for it. Nobody could know. Nobody could ever know. If they found this, I’d never have a window again, just walls.

“Hey,” she called over after the sky had gone dark, and she hadn’t seen any sign of me for a while. “You have to tell me why. What did you do? Draw a bunch of dirty pictures once and it fried their brains?”

I leaned on the sill for a long time. In her window, she was a silhouette, a mystery lit from behind, and if I’d been a little older then, I might have wanted to draw every single strand of hair that cut the light into ribbons. She’d done the kindest thing for me that anyone ever had, and we’d never even been in the same room, or closer than twelve feet.

“Sometimes I draw things and they come true,” I told her. Because she’d asked, and I had no one else to tell and couldn’t imagine a day when I ever would. “Sometimes I draw things and it makes them happen. Or makes them change.”

She didn’t say a word. Liar … I might’ve expected that. Might’ve even hoped for it. The longer the silence, the more I wished she’d just make fun of me. My fingers hung onto the windowsill the way bird claws hold branches.

“You’re not going to go away now, are you? You’ll still come to the window?”

“It depends,” she said.

“On what?”

“How does it work? Do you just draw anything, and whatever happens, happens? Or do you have to want it to, first?”

“I think I have to mean for it to. Even if I don’t know that at the time.”

And even if I wanted it to happen, sometimes nothing did. Otherwise, the park would’ve been full of T-Rexes and a brontosaurus herd. Which had made me think I was limited to working with what was there already, not making something out of nothing.

“Interesting,” she said. “Listen. They tell me I’m going to have to have braces starting next year. The last thing I want is a big shiny metal mouth. If I gave you a really good look at them, do you think you could fix my teeth?”

***

I’ve always wondered what her dentist would have said if he’d ever gotten a chance to see her teeth again.

It wasn’t a hard thing to do, and I was able to get a closer look at her mouth than she expected, because I had a telescope, all the better to see everything on the earth and sky I was missing. Roni stood in her window and smiled a wide, crazy smile, and I let it fill the telescope’s eyepiece, and first drew her teeth the way they were, how the ones around the side tilted in and one in the front overlapped the other. Then I concentrated really hard and started changing the lines a little at a time. Twice she said it hurt, but didn’t want to stop.

After we were done, it took a while before she came back from the bathroom mirror. But she said I’d done a good job.

It wasn’t the first time I’d fixed something, and I was better at it by now than I was before, when I was smaller and my fingers didn’t move as well, and this was all new to me, and something my parents didn’t understand. All I’d done until that time was little things around the house, like switch the arms and legs on a dancing figure that spun around on top of my mother’s music box. They never suspected, not until the night they had a party, for Christmas, I think, and they marched me around to all the guests, and had me show off things I’d drawn so everyone could see what a great artist they had here.

One of the guests asked me to draw his portrait.

So I did.

Except I drew him the way I wanted him, because I didn’t like him. He was loud and his breath stank and he spit when he talked and it hurt my ears to be around him, so first I drew his ugly flapping mouth, and then I smeared it out, and his eyes, too, to stop him from looking at me the way he was starting to.

That changed the party in a hurry.

My parents figured things out, finally, and made me put him back together again, but I was scared by then, and didn’t draw as well, and it was the first time I’d tried to make anything the way it was before. A few days later, when I was eavesdropping on my parents as they argued about what to do with me, I heard them say the man was going to be having surgeries for years.

So it was good to help Roni.

But there wasn’t much else that needed changing, so the rest of the time I just drew without any other reason behind it, mostly other places I would rather be, if only I knew how to get there.

***

The school year ended for everyone but me, and summer got hotter. Whenever I wasn’t having lessons and Roni wasn’t somewhere else, we lived at our open windows, so our top floors got warmer, too, and we wore the windowsills smooth with our elbows.

Plus we’d never taken down the rope.

“Do you think we should?” I asked one night.

“No. Definitely not,” she said. “They never paid any attention to what’s going on over their heads before, so why would they start now?”

So we used the basket to pass stuff back and forth, like books and magazines and comics and music and other things we liked, plus things we made. I sent her drawings, some to keep, and she sent me some stories she was working on, not only to read but for me to draw pictures for them.

She admitted they were all set in the place where the songs came from.

Roni had never stopped singing after that first night. I was glad of it, and by now she didn’t seem to mind if I heard or not. I still didn’t understand the language, and she wouldn’t tell me what the words meant, but I began imagining what they must’ve been about from the sound of them. And from her stories, which I did understand. These were mostly about girls who killed trolls and ogres, or held them captive forever, or held them captive awhile and then killed them. At first I felt sorry for them, because as a fellow prisoner I knew what they were going through, but then I realized each one of them had done something terrible to the girls, so it was probably for the best when the princesses and peasants and warrior girls started by cutting off the monsters’ hands.

Then, one evening, when the sky was soft and purple and fireflies flickered close to the ground, she peered at me with her head cocked at a curious tilt. “It was you, wasn’t it?” she said. “Those people in the park, in the winter. You did that, didn’t you?”

I’d been waiting for this for weeks. “I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”

“Three different times it was an accident?” She laughed the way you laugh when you don’t believe something, but didn’t sound mad. She hadn’t known them, so what was it to her if their heads had come off. “How did you do it without paper?”

I asked if she ever had known what it was like to want to do something so bad, only not be able to, that you thought you were going to explode. She didn’t have to think about it. Well, that was me without paper. Until I’d noticed a layer of frost on the inside of the windows overlooking the park.

“All I did was look through the glass and use my fingernail to scratch an outline around them.” And then flick my fingernail across their necks. “I didn’t mean anything. The first time I didn’t even know it would happen.”

She looked confused. “When I first asked you how it worked, you told me you did have to mean it.”

Right. I had. So maybe I was mad at the people for being able to be out while it was snowing and I had to stay inside. Maybe I’d done it the second time to make sure the first was really my fault. Maybe a third time just because I could. Mostly I remembered the way they fell, first one part and then the other, straight down into the snow without any sound.

“Is it something you’ll always be able to do?”

“I guess so,” I told her. “But I heard my parents talking once and they were wondering if I might grow out of it someday.”

She nodded, very solemn, very serious. “I have to think about this.”

“Are you mad at me?”

But she was already gone from the window. I still heard her voice, though, and it gave me hope: “I’ll never tell on you, if that’s what you mean.”

***

Later that night I was awakened by the basket clunking at the window. I turned on a light, the only light burning in the whole world, and got out of bed to see what she’d sent me. It was a picture, Roni and two boys, one obviously older and one who looked younger, plus a woman and a man. Roni wasn’t smiling, at least not so you could see her teeth and whether any of them were crooked or not, and I sort of remembered what it was like, having to pretend to smile that way.

Her voice was a whisper now, floating like a mist across the space between our rooms.

“If someone was going to come over, and I told you what time, and you knew who to look for, and you saw him, could you do it then?” she said. “The trick with the head?”

I rubbed my eyes and looked at the picture some more. “Who to?”

She made a sound I’d never heard. “Don’t make me say it.”

A little later I turned out the light because maybe it would be easier on her that way, and I listened to her breathe and leaned in the window in the moonlight so she could see I would stay there for as long as it took.

“The one in the middle,” she finally said.

***

It was early August when I heard her crying. I didn’t even know she did that, because she seemed very much older to me, twelve or maybe as old as thirteen, and I thought nothing could get to her that bad any more.

I suppose I’d always been afraid that all of this would only be for the summer, or a year, anything but forever, that it was too good to last. I’d made a friend and so had she, and as far as I knew, no one else in the downstairs world was even aware of it, and this was just the way we liked it. But tomorrow she would be going away again. They would be coming to pick her up and take her home again.

“Nothing will change there,” she told me. “They say it will this time, but I know it won’t.”

It was a long time before I understood what she really meant by that. At the time, all I knew was that it meant a lot to her, meant everything to her.

“You could come over here,” I said. “I’ll hide you.”

She laughed through her tears. It had been a long time since I’d heard it, the you’re-such-an-idiot laugh. “You don’t think your parents will notice me down there looking for the keys?”

“That’s not how I mean. Just come across. Like we did with the paper and everything else.”

“On the rope? It’ll never hold me.”

It could. I was very sure of this. I told her how it could.

I didn’t mean for this to make her cry even harder, but it did.

I stayed awake the rest of that night, pinching myself whenever I got sleepy, in case Roni changed her mind. It was kind of fun, because I hardly ever got to see the sunrise, and now I had a reason, something important to do for once.

“Okay,” she said when the sky was first beginning to go pink and orange. “I think I trust you.”

We started with her legs.

Had I ever drawn anything this carefully before? Never. Never in my whole life.

She tied each one to the rope by the ankle, and once I‘d pulled them across I unfastened them and rested them side-by-side on my bed, toes up, the way they’d be if she were lying there whole, and I never knew she had a birthmark the size of a quarter on one thigh.

Now we had to start planning more carefully, because once we did the first arm, she wouldn’t be able to tie things very well with just one hand, so she had to start tying parts of herself to the line ahead of time. The last thing she did was lean over to one side with her head in the basket and wait for me to take care of the rest.

After I had all her parts laid out in place I thought of my assistants, my human spiders, and how happy we made the audience and how loudly it clapped for us. I really wanted to try it, except Roni hadn’t agreed to this, and probably wouldn’t like it, and I could see how impatiently her head was staring at me from the pillow.

So I just drew her back together again like normal.

“What did it feel like?” I wanted to know. “Did it hurt?”

“Not much.” She thought awhile longer. “Cold, though. It felt cold.” She looked around at all the space I had, a whole floor to myself. “This is nice. This is really, really nice.”

We cut the rope and pulled all of it over, then cut it into little pieces so she would never have to go across again. Some of the pieces we threw out the window, down to the ground and up on the roof, and the rest we hid. I knew where to hide anything.

I knew where to hide her when they brought breakfast up, and we shared it even though it wasn’t enough for two of us. I knew where to hide her when the governess came, so she could listen without being heard. I just wasn’t sure where to hide her if anyone really came looking. And they would, I was sure of it. It wouldn’t matter that there were locks on the door at the bottom of the stairs. They’d still come looking. Because they knew there was something different about me.

But for as long as it lasted, it was the best day of my life.

In between the fun stuff, we kept watch at the window, and listened, and late in the day a car stopped in front of the house next door. People got out and I recognized them from the photo she’d sent me, including the one in the middle.

I held up paper and a pencil. “Do you still want me to? The trick with the head?”

We watched them walk closer, and I was glad all over again that I wasn’t a girl, because I couldn’t ever imagine myself looking that confused over a simple question.

“No,” she finally whispered. “I couldn’t really do that.”

I sort of remembered what that was like.

It was less than an hour before they came, but before then we heard people calling outside and watched them troop over to the park and back again. Eventually the doorbell rang downstairs, big bonging chimes you could hear all the way up here.

It was time.

And I knew where to hide her now. It could work. I was very sure of this. I told her how it could, and this time she didn’t cry.

I drew myself first, getting everything just right because this was the trick that mattered most of all. Then I waited while we looked at each other, because I knew now that I loved her, even if I didn’t know as what, and there was nothing more to say, just listening for the voices and footsteps to get closer, until the keys began to click in the door, and Roni closed her eyes and nodded.

Back to the paper, concentrating very hard, blocking out everything else.

I drew her inside me.

And when I looked up again she was gone.

***

That was a long time ago, in a house I hardly remember, except for every square inch of the top floor, and the views. The house isn’t standing anymore.

But we’d pulled it off, waiting there innocent while they looked for her. It wasn’t as if they had to tear the place apart. Even with an entire third floor to search, there are only so many places something the size of a person can hide. I think they were a little afraid of me by this time, too. There’s what you know, and what you suspect, and what you don’t know, and they realized what they didn’t know was the biggest part of it, and so they must have decided it would be safer not to grill me too hard.

Inside, I could feel her moving, but later on she went to sleep, the way you can sleep when you’re with someone you trust.

We waited a long time, weeks and then months, for the search and suspicions to die down.

“Aren’t you ready to come out now?” I’d ask every so often.

“Just a little longer,” she’d tell me. “This is nice. This is really, really nice.”

Never in a hurry. So I asked less and less often.

Until there was no point asking anymore.

Of all the things my parents were wrong about when it came to me, why did they have to be right about this one: that the thing with the paper was something I’d grow out of someday. I don’t even know when it happened. It just did, and while whatever I put down on paper looked better than ever, it just sat there doing nothing, empty and lifeless and inert.

By now I must have gone through forests of trees, trying to remember what it was like, to recapture what once seemed so easy, so I could draw her back out of me again. But the results are always the same. One more crumpled wad of paper, one more curl of ash.

Yet still, she’s close, so close I can almost touch her.

But now her voice comes from so far away.

The End

The Ghost in the AI Machine

By

Viggy Parr Hampton

I didn’t want it to come to this, ever. I promise. If you believe nothing else that I’m about to tell you, please believe that.

I’m going to tell the truth now so that there’s evidence of what actually happened, and why I did what I did. I need to make sure my own story gets told. Honestly, that’s what I should have done from the very beginning. If I had, none of this would have happened.

#

“Kelsey, if you don’t start bringing in more cash, things are going to get really tight around here, really fast,” Joey said, watching me carefully over the rim of his coffee cup. We’d had that particular conversation before, and it hadn’t ended well.

“I know,” I said icily, biting off a hunk of granola bar with my teeth bared. “You’ve just got to trust me. I’m learning so much, babe.”

“I mean… that’s great, it really is, but you should probably look into taking on more client work again,” he said. He visibly scooted away—just a little, but it showed he was afraid of what I might say. Of what I might do.

Good.

“We both agreed it was time for me to quit the graphic design so I could write full-time,” I said. “Or did you already forget?”

He cleared his throat. “No. No, of course I didn’t forget.”

“Then what are we even talking about?” I said, shoving the rest of the granola bar into my mouth and crumpling up the wrapper into a tight ball in my fist. The bar was dry and stale, and it made my mouth taste like dust. I suppressed a cough—I couldn’t show any weakness.

“It’s just…” Joey trailed off, trying to find the right combination of words that would get his point across without setting me off. We both knew my self-published books hadn’t been doing as well lately. He didn’t need to point it out… and yet. “It’s just, we planned out our year based on a certain amount coming from your books each month, and that amount hasn’t been coming through, and… we’ve got some expenses in the near future, you know…”

“Of course I know,” I said. Our air conditioner was on the fritz, and the last time it rained, our roof leaked into our living room, ruining our new couch. Both inevitable repairs would need to be handled sooner rather than later.

“Well… if you don’t want to get a new client—”

“Christ, Joey, don’t you think I’ve tried? I’ve sent over fifty cold emails over the past two months. Do you think I wanted you to have to come to me like this? It’s humiliating. I’m trying as hard as I can, but nobody is hiring, okay? So since that’s not working out, I just have to pump out more books. And the more books I publish, the more money I’ll bring in. It’s a numbers game.”

Joey took a sip of his coffee, his brow furrowed. “So, you’re going to start writing more.”

“I’m going to start publishing more,” I said. “But it takes so fricking long to write a book. And then there’s all the other stuff that goes into publishing.”

Joey put his mug down on the table. “Why don’t you just let AI do it?” he said.

The ball of dry granola roiled in my stomach. “AI? Are you serious right now?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he said. “You don’t have to get it to write your books for you, but it could give you some ideas. Write some hard parts. Make things faster for you, so you can publish more.”

“Joey, I write because I love it. Not to make money. I thought you understood that.”

“I do. But I don’t think you fully understand the bind we’re about to be in. Do you want to go through a whole winter with no heat? And with a roof leak?”

“Fuck,” I said softly, praying for the granola bar to stay down. “AI goes against everything I stand for, Joey. Nobody wants to read AI drivel. It steals from real artists. It’s unoriginal, it’s dystopian, it’s…” I stopped short of saying it was evil, but we both knew where I was headed.

“Okay, okay,” Joey said, putting his hands up in a placating gesture. “Whatever. But just think about it, will you? I want…” he sighed heavily. “I want this to work.”

He left the room then, his empty mug still on the table, his unsaid words reverberating around our tiny kitchen: Make this work, or we won’t work.

***

I stared at the blinking cursor on my computer. When I’d had money coming in from my graphic design freelancing, the words had come so much more easily. Ever since I shuttered my business and started writing full-time, each word felt like a stupendous slog. When Joey asked, I told him everything was going great, my story was progressing, my characters were interesting, blah blah blah. But the truth was paralyzing: I hadn’t written more than a couple thousand shitty words in the past two months.

“Come on,” I said, jiggling the keyboard, willing the words to flow. Of course, nothing happened.

I don’t know how long I stared at the screen, but my trance was broken by a ping from my email inbox. Probably too eagerly, I went to check the new message. It was from Joey, with the subject line ‘In case you need a little help.’ There was no text in the body of the message beyond a single hyperlink. Before I fully comprehended what was happening, I was clicking on the link. A white window opened up, and then the page was loading.

‘Welcome to ChatBookAI,’ the page read in large, no-nonsense black letters.

A garbled moan escaped my throat, and I wasn’t sure if I was going to laugh, cry, or scream. What did Joey think he was doing? Was he trying to destroy my creative flow and my artistic reputation in one fell swoop?

Or is he just trying to help you? a small voice within the recesses of my mind asked.

Below the ‘Welcome’ headline, there was a dialog box with gray text reading, ‘What can ChatBookAI do for you today?’

That was it. No fancy flourishes, no logos, no colors. From a graphic design perspective, the site was boring and simplistic. Surely a company that couldn’t manage to invest in a more punchy graphical interface or landing page couldn’t have any sort of sophisticated software.

Right?

There was only one way to find out. My fingers flew over the keyboard of their own accord, and I had a moment of misplaced joy at the rush of words I could suddenly produce. I typed, ‘I need to write a scene where my main character, Travis Wilson, who is sort of a psycho, meets the girl he starts to become obsessed with, Rachel Davies, and he gives her the creeps. Rachel is kind of meek, but really pretty, and Travis wants her for himself. He’s handsome but morally repugnant, and Rachel is immediately put off by him, but she’s not strong enough to completely reject him. Setting is present day New York City. I want them to meet in a bar. Travis and Rachel are both in their 20s.’

I pressed Enter.

I’d been stuck on this particular scene ever since I quit my graphic design consulting gig. It was as though the minute I sent my last invoice, my creative muse closed her lips forever, leaving me high and dry. I was a measly five thousand words into this book, and it wouldn’t go anywhere without a really standout scene between Travis and Rachel—and I just couldn’t seem to write it.

But ChatBookAI could.

My eyes started to glisten as I read over what the program had spit out. The AI played up Travis’s dark side, making him clutch at the bottle of GHB he kept in his pocket whenever he went out to the bars. Rachel was almost virginally pure, but the AI threw in a few details to make it clear that she wasn’t a caricature. She had her flaws, but the reader could still root for her. I made it to the end of the scene, with Travis holding Rachel’s shoulder a bit too tightly, and then I started crying.

It was perfect. It even sounded like me. Everything was surreal—the AI wrote my work better than I could, and it made the prose sound more ‘me’ than I was capable of. How was that possible?

I had to know how the story progressed. I typed in another prompt: ‘Write the next scene where Travis tracks Rachel to her apartment and he’s almost caught by Rachel’s friend who is secretly in love with her.’

ChatBookAI did not disappoint. The scene was lively, fierce, the sort of edge-of-your-seat writing that would make readers crave more—that would make me crave more.

I typed another prompt, and then another one after that. It wasn’t until I heard the rattle of Joey’s key in the door that I looked up from my screen. My eyes were burning, my bladder was full to bursting, and my ass was numb from sitting.

But—I had a novel. And it had taken me less than eight hours.

***

There was no need for a physical check, not when I could transfer money to our joint account with a click of a button, but it was all about the symbolism.

With a flourish, I signed my name at the bottom and placed the piece of paper worth $5,000 next to Joey’s dinner plate. He was going to be home any minute, and I wanted to see his face.

It had been one month since I published Travis’s story, Bruised Fire, and the money had been flowing like water. The book’s success even started raising the profile of my other titles. The $5,000 for my half of the air conditioner replacement was barely a fifth of what I’d made since publication.

When Joey got home, he went straight for the table. I’d made penne alla vodka, his favorite, and he was so absorbed in eating that it took him awhile to notice the check. When he finally saw it, his eyes went so wide I thought they might pop right out of his skull and land in his plate like squishy meatballs.

“Kels,” he said. “Oh, my God. Is this for real?”

I sipped my wine. “Of course,” I said.

Joey leaned back, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “You know I never doubted you, right? I just didn’t know how long it would take…”

“Well, now you know,” I said.

“I’m so proud of you, babe,” he said. “You’re so talented, I mean it.”

Something itched at the back of my mind. Did you really write that, Kelsey? I shoved it away. Of course I wrote it. I just needed a little help, that was all. Just like Joey had said in his email.

“Thanks,” I said. “Now I think it’s pretty obvious I’m never going back to graphic design.” I half-expected him to bring up the email he’d sent about ChatBookAI, but he didn’t, which was good. The less we talked about it, the better. Nobody else needed to know. They wouldn’t understand.

“Not if things keep going like this,” he said, taking a gulp of his own wine.

I wanted to smile, but his words irked me. Couldn’t he see what I could do now? Couldn’t he believe in me enough not to say shitty things like that?

I downed the rest of my wine and stood up. “I have to get back to writing.”

Joey smiled. “That’s my girl,” he said. “You can clean up whenever you’re done.”

***

I was in a sour mood when I opened my laptop. What did Joey expect? For me to cook him dinner and clean up after him like he was a little boy, even though I was the breadwinner now? How was that fair?

I navigated to ChatBookAI. My next book would be a sequel to Bruised Fire, called Damaged Goods. Travis would be in it, and Rachel… well, Rachel was rather worse for wear after the first book, and I wasn’t sure if she’d play too big of a role in the sequel.

But I didn’t have to be sure, I just had to let the words flow. Did it really matter that I wasn’t writing every single little sentence if I was the one prompting, generating, thinking?

‘Write an opening scene where we meet Travis again after the end of the last book. He’s upset, but he’s regrouping. He might go back after Rachel, but he’s not sure. He meets a new girl who distracts him for a bit. He’s back to his old tricks.’

I leaned back against the couch and let ChatBookAI bring my ideas to life.

***

The first message came the next day.

A notification from Instagram popped up on my phone. An account I didn’t follow wanted to message me.

I opened up the app to check it out and my stomach immediately clenched. The username was @TravisWilson13.

It’s okay, I told myself. That’s a really common name. Plus, the book is so popular, maybe this is just a fan.

That was logical enough, but I couldn’t shake the nausea creeping up the back of my throat. With trembling fingers, I opened the message.

It read, ‘Hey, Kelsey. Just wanted to say I saw your profile, and I think you’re pretty hot. Want to grab a drink sometime?’

My breath whooshed out of my mouth. I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding it. My fingers hovered over the screen—part of me wanted to delete the message. That would have been the best course of action, the most obvious choice, but another part of me wanted to say something back. I still don’t know if it was anger, or frustration, or plain simple curiosity. Joey and I had been dating for five years and living together for two. I couldn’t remember the last time he called me ‘hot,’ or the last time he took me out for a date night.

“Babe?” Joey said, startling me out of my thoughts. “Have you seen my keys?”

“Um,” I said, trying to swallow around the lump in my throat. “They’re by the fridge.”

“Great, thanks,” Joey said. He stared at me for a moment, then said, “You alright?”

A fake smile stretched my lips. “Totally,” I said.

“Okay,” he said. “I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

When Joey left, I deleted the message from @TravisWilson13.

***

The next message came through Facebook. I was scrolling through my feed when a message popped up.

It was from Travis Wilson.

I didn’t want to read it, but I was opening it before I could stop myself.

Fuck, I thought. Now he’ll see that I’ve read it.

Travis had said, ‘Kelsey, don’t ignore me, baby! You know I don’t back down from what I want that easily.’

“Stop,” I said aloud, even though whoever this was obviously couldn’t hear me. This was some weird prank, of course. Travis Wilson wasn’t real.

Before I could exit out of the message, another one came through: ‘You’re not going to leave me on read, are you?’

Fuck. Whoever this was, they wanted to mess with me.

I was done being messed with.

I typed, ‘Fuck off, asshole.’ Then I deleted the messages.

***

I tried to keep working on Damaged Goods, but even thinking about Travis Wilson made me lose my appetite. Yes, he was a great character, but something about him was starting to feel too… real. I knew whoever was behind the messages was some sort of semi-deranged but still flesh-and-blood human, but I didn’t like the bad taste they left behind.

I would open ChatBookAI, but I kept closing it before I could type out a prompt. It wasn’t easy—I felt so pulled to the story, so entrenched in the world I was creating, that severing myself from it felt wrong.

I just need some space, I thought. I just need space and time away. For a little while, that’s all. Until these stupid messages stop.

Or, I could always write something new. Bruised Fire was selling by the cartload, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t change tack for the next book. I hadn’t announced the sequel yet. I could make up a new world, inhabited by characters that didn’t feel quite so sinister.

Resolved, I closed my laptop and spent the rest of the day cleaning the house.

#

An email dropped into my inbox the next morning. Someone had filled out the contact page on my website.

Of course. Travis Wilson.

‘Really, Kels? You’re going to play me like that? Well, if that’s what you want, I can get nasty, too.’

I was frozen, my body stiff with shock, fear, and something bitter, like shame. I’d dealt with my fair share of creeps back when I was on the dating apps before I met Joey, and some had been persistent, but none of them had made me feel so… invaded. So vulnerable.

I deleted the email, but another one came right after.

‘You can’t get rid of me, Kels. And do you know what will happen if you try?’

My head started to pound, and my fingers felt cold. I thought I might faint.

The next email was the longest communication so far.

‘Let me be very clear, Kelsey. If you don’t keep telling my story, I’ll tell everyone your story. The one you don’t want anyone else to hear.’

Before I could stop myself, I was pounding out a reply. ‘Who the fuck are you? You can’t blackmail me, you asshole!’ Mere seconds after I pressed Send, his reply came back, furious and hot enough to burn.

‘Kelsey, baby, you’re just like Rachel. You don’t know when to stop fighting and just give in already. I know what you did. I know exactly how you wrote that book you’re so proud of. Or, I suppose I should say, how AI wrote that book for you. One word from me and your career goes straight into the shitter.’

My palms and fingertips were so sweaty, I could barely press the keys. How could this person know about ChatBookAI? Had Joey told someone? Was there some sort of failsafe built into the software that made it identifiable as AI-produced?

Another message came through as I was hyperventilating.

‘Keep writing my story, Kelsey. That’s all you have to do. Keep writing it, and I won’t say a word.’

Why the fuck did the guy keep saying ‘my story?’ He wasn’t real! Whoever this was, he was deeply disturbed. Even if he was bluffing, there was no way to engage with someone like that. He wasn’t predictable. I couldn’t trust that he wouldn’t follow through on his threat—the sort of threat that, as he said, would absolutely plunge my career straight into the shitter. I’d have to change my name. I’d never be able to write again. I’d have to go back to graphic design, and that well had run dry, that much was clear, and then I wouldn’t be able to pay the bills, and then we’d lose the house, and Joey would leave me, and—

My inbox pinged again. ‘What do you say, Kels?’

‘Fine.’ I typed out my reply, keeping it curt, not admitting guilt. How else were you supposed to interact with a crazy person who thought they were a character out of a book? Nothing about the situation was normal.

Then again, it wasn’t like I had to do what this weirdo said. How would he even know if I was writing ‘his story’ or not?

As if on cue, ‘Start writing. Now’ landed in my inbox.

I opened ChatBookAI, my insides feeling like jelly, and typed out a new prompt.

‘Write a scene where Travis catches back up with Rachel, and she’s terrified, but she can’t do anything because she’s with her parents and she doesn’t want Travis to hurt them…’

***

The message came through Instagram again, but it wasn’t from @TravisWilson13. It was from @RachelDavies_x, and it read, ‘Why are you doing this to me? I was away from him! I was free! What is wrong with you?’

A blanket of unreality fell over me. This wasn’t happening. Or was it the same asshole who was pretending to be Travis, now finding a new way to torment me?

But how? How could he know what I’d been working on? Damaged Goods wouldn’t be ready for publication for at least a few more weeks…

Another message came through from @RachelDavies_x. ‘Please, I’m begging you. Don’t let him near me anymore. Please!’

I deleted the message without responding.

***

“Lean Cuisine again?” Joey complained, sitting down at the table. I’d spent the rest of the day curled up in our bed, refusing to look at my phone or computer, even though they kept dinging with new messages, despite both devices being silenced. I didn’t have to look to know who the messages were from, and what they were saying. I wasn’t working on the book. I couldn’t make myself do it. Even mustering up the energy to microwave Joey some frozen chicken Alfredo for dinner was nearly too difficult to manage. I felt completely hollowed out.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, pushing around my own watery noodles with my fork.

“Kels, what’s going on with you?” Joey asked, setting his fork down. He hadn’t touched his food.

I looked up, meeting his eyes. “Nothing,” I said. “I’m fine.”

“I know you’ve been working hard, and I’m really sorry I put so much pressure on you,” he said. “It’s okay if you slow down a bit. Bruised Fire is still doing well, right? It’s okay to take a break.”

I gulped. There was no way I was going to tell him about the ‘Travis Wilson’ and ‘Rachel Davies’ messages I’d been getting. He’d just say they were from overzealous fans.

Hell, that’s what I thought at first. But now, I wasn’t so sure. They felt too… too real.

“Kels? Are you hearing me?” Joey asked, reaching over to lift up my chin with his finger.

“Yep,” I said.

“Okay,” he said warily. “Maybe… maybe you could get back into cooking?” He laughed, trying to dispel the tension, but it didn’t work. My temper flared.

“Or maybe you could do the motherfucking cooking, Joey,” I snarled.

Joey’s hands went up. “Whoa, whoa,” he said. “Where did that come from?”

“You have no idea what my life is like!” I bellowed.

An odd expression flickered across Joey’s face. “Oh yeah? I know you get to be home all day, work when you feel like it, do whatever you want, while I spend an hour on the metro to get to a shithole of an office where I have to listen to my asshat boss tell me my presentations should look more ‘polished’ even though his look like they were made by a toddler. Then, I get to spend another hour getting home, and after all that, I have to eat this disgusting garbage because my girlfriend is too tired from sitting down all day to cook me something edible.”

I was too stunned to say anything. My anger had evaporated as quickly as it had come, replaced by the empty feeling.

We stared at each other, Joey panting, me barely daring to breathe.

“Don’t you have anything to say?” Joey finally asked, his mouth twisted into a scowl.

“I wish you’d never sent me that website,” I managed to whisper.

“What?” Joey said.

“I wish you’d never sent me that stupid website!” I said, nearly screaming.

“What are you talking about? What website?”

“That ChatBookAI website! I should never have listened to you! I should have just trusted myself and written my own shit!”

Joey’s scowl turned into a pout of confusion. “Kelsey, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Without another word, I sprang from the table and ran to get my laptop. He couldn’t just ruin my life and then pretend he’d never done a single thing wrong.

I opened up my email and quickly scrolled past all the new messages from ‘Travis Wilson.’ I got to Joey’s original email, the one that started all of this. I opened it and swiveled the laptop around to face him.

“See? Don’t you remember this?”

He squinted at the screen. “Kels, I didn’t send that,” he said.

“Of course you did! Do you not see your name right there?”

“Click on it,” he said, stone faced. When I didn’t move, he yanked the computer from me and did it himself. The vindication in his voice was palpable as he said, “Look! That’s not my email. I didn’t send this to you.”

“Then who did?” I squeaked.

Joey leaned closer to the computer. “The email address is… authorhelp@chatbookai.com.”

“Oh fuck,” I whispered. I pulled my knees up to my chest, rocking back and forth in my chair. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.”

“What?” Joey said, exasperated. “Why are you freaking out? You must have clicked on a link or something, so they sent you an intro email.”

“But I didn’t—it had your name—”

“It’s scammy, that’s for sure,” Joey said. “But it happens. It’s not a big deal.”

“I can’t—I never—” My voice was coming in breathy gasps, and I had no idea what I was trying to say. ChatBookAI had been hunting me from the very beginning.

And now I was afraid it was going to go in for the kill.

My email dinged with a new message. Joey moved to open it before I could stop him.

He read aloud, “’It’s over now, bitch. You’re going to get exactly what you deserve.’” He looked at me, scrutinizing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Across the room, my phone started pinging nonstop as notification after notification popped up on the screen. My computer started chirping in concert, a barrage of hate raining down on me.

“What is all this?” Joey said, clicking around on the screen.

I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t help myself. I peeked over his shoulder as he opened my Instagram.

‘She really used AI to write this? Jesus Christ, get some talent!’

‘What a fuckin fraud!’

‘Nobody wants to read AI slop!’

‘She’s basically stealing all of her stuff from real writers. That’s disgusting!’

‘That’s it. Kelsey James is cancelled.’

‘I can’t believe anyone actually read that piece of shit.’

‘She’s a no-talent wannabe who doesn’t have the decency to write her books herself.’

‘DEATH TO KELSEY JAMES! DEATH TO KELSEY JAMES!’

‘Fuck all of y’all who think AI can replace real people.’

‘Kelsey James is the worst of the worst.’

The last thing I saw before I blacked out was yet another email from ‘Travis Wilson.’ ‘Who’s damaged goods now, baby?’

The End

Firebug

By

Michael McBride

Prologue

Twenty Years Ago

“Don’t shake it!”

“Why not? It’s just a firebug, Amelia. It can’t feel anything.”

“Yes it can. It feels just like we do. It even has a soul so it can go to heaven.”

“That’s not true. Who told you that?”

“It’s practically a fact, Emma. Look it up in the dictionary.”

“Encyclopedia, dummy.”

“Mom said not to call me names. And it’s a firefly, not a firebug.”

“They’re beetles, not flies. Besides, Dad says they’re ‘firebugs.’”

“He also says not to catch them in jars.”

“You’re not going to tell him, though.” The older girl leaned over the edge of the top bunk and glared at her younger sister. “Are you?”

“’Course not. We stick together.”

“That’s right. Sisters always stick together. Don’t forget it.”

The older girl shook the jar and set it on the windowsill. A brilliant yellow light flashed from the firefly’s rear end as it tapped against the glass.

“What do you think makes it glow, Emma?”

“Probably fire. Why else would people call them firebugs?”

“Fireflies. And the color’s too pretty for fire. I’ll bet that’s their souls. All fire does is burn.”

I

One Year Ago

Colorado Springs, Colorado

July 22nd

“Damn it, Carol! There’s no time to pack!”

She sobbed as she shoved everything of personal value into her suitcase. Jewelry, photo albums, sentimental trinkets. Anything that couldn’t be replaced. Her hands shook so badly that most of what she tried to take fell to the floor, which only served to make her cry even harder.

“Listen to me!” Raymond took his wife by the shoulders and turned her to face him. Her eyes were wide and wild. Tears streaked her mascara down her cheeks. He spoke as calmly as he could, carefully enunciating each word. “We need to get out of here right now or we aren’t going to make it.”

“This is all your fault!” She pounded her fists against his chest, his shoulders. He pulled her close and pinned her against him. Felt the fight drain out of her. “All your…fault…”

“We’re going to get through this.” He stroked her hair as he whispered into her ear. Struggled to hold her upright. “You and me, Carol. We’ve made it through hard times and we’ll do so again. Right now. Shh. Shh…Right now, though, we have to leave or we won’t be able to get out of here at all.”

She pushed out of his grasp and grabbed her bag.

He glanced back over his shoulder at the second-story window. Deep black smoke boiled against the sky. He could already see the brilliant glare of the advancing flames, working their way across the valley and up the slope toward his neighbor’s house. The fire was chewing through the dry weeds and pines like a runaway thresher.

Raymond turned and ran for the stairs. He caught up with his wife at the bottom. Ushered her toward the door to the garage. Looked back. Everything. Everything for which he had worked so hard. The house. The furniture. The books. The paintings. The pictures of his children. The memories. All of them were going to burn.

Carol opened the door and screamed.

Raymond pulled her away from the garage and slammed the door. He caught a fleeting glimpse of a silhouette in the darkness beside their SUV before it vanished behind the closing door.

It was already too late.

He took his wife by the hand and pulled her toward the sliding glass door in the family room. A carpet of flames swept across the back lawn. He slid the door open and a cloud of smoke billowed into the house. Rushed up the walls. Gathered near the ceiling. He coughed and covered his mouth and nose. Watched the flames race up the posts supporting the balcony above him.

No escape would be found through there.

He heard the wail of sirens in the distance.

Glowing embers gusted into the house, settled upon the carpet, and started to smolder.

Raymond dragged his wife away from the open door.

They ran up the stairs again. Through the living room. Into the foyer and toward the front door. He grasped the knob. Turned. It twisted in his palm but wouldn’t open. He put his shoulder into it. Quietly. No give. Harder. A thumping sound that made him cringe. Still no movement. It was somehow sealed from the outside.

The garage door burst inward with the sound of cracking wood. Struck the wall behind it.

Raymond opened the hall closet and shoved Carol inside, down on the floor, below the hanging coats. He ducked down out of the smoke and crawled across the tiled floor. Peeked down the stairs.

The silhouette stood framed in the back door as cinders gusted into its face. It stared through the smoke, the fire reflecting its bulky silver form. He could hear it breathing. Heavy. Labored. Mechanical.

It reached for the handle on the door.

Paused.

Raymond’s heart beat so hard in his chest it made his vision tremble.

Slowly, it slid the door closed. A fiery breath of cinders and ashes gusted through the narrowing gap until it latched with a click.

They were going to die in here.

He scurried back to the hall closet. Looked at his wife. So small, crouching there in the shadows. Tears streamed from her closed eyes. Her lips quivered.

Thump.

A heavy boot struck the bottom stair.

Thump.

Another. One step higher.

Raymond ducked into the closet. Pulled the door closed. Softly.

Thump.

Turned the handle until the tongue slid silently into the groove.

Thump.

A creak of the handrail, just on the other side of the wall.

Thump.

He scooted closer to his wife and pulled her into his arms.

Thump.

Smoke crept through the crack beneath the door. Burned his eyes, his throat.

Thump.

He tried not to cough. Kissed his wife’s hair.

Thump.

A shadow passed across the gap. The floorboards groaned. Large boots, scored black with carbon. Deep tread. They stopped in front of the door.

Again he heard the mechanical breathing.

Carol whimpered and he pulled her face to his chest. Felt the dampness of her tears. Prayed her death would be quick and merciful.

The shadow passed from beneath the door and Raymond wept in relief.

Maybe they had a chance after all.

The door swung open.

Carol screamed.

II

July 25th

“At times the smoke has been so thick we can’t see beyond that ridge over there to the west. Now I want you to look back this way, where you can see the flames rising from the roofs of the houses over the trees. So far, more than a hundred homes have burned and the fire remains zero percent contained…”

“…learned from the National Weather Service that there was no lightning data recorded within the last seven days in this part of Southern Colorado. Priority number one is getting a handle on this fire, but in the backs of their minds, though, they do want to know what started this destructive blaze…”

“…expanded—just within the last few hours—the evacuation zone to include an additional eighteen hundred homes.”

“As you can see behind me, these police vehicles racing past—We’ve just been informed we need to wrap this up and get out of here. Because of these high winds, the fire’s moving fast and becoming more and more unpredictable…”

“…investigators suspect arson as now more than one hundred and fifty homes have been consumed by the fire and upwards of thirty-five hundred evacuees remain in shelters around the city. Hotlines have been set up to help…”

“…saddened to report the first confirmed casualties of the blaze as firefighters and relief workers sift through the rubble left in the fire’s wake.”

III

Four Months Ago

Provo, Utah

March 4th

“You’re wasting your time coming all the way down here,” the medical examiner said. He was younger than most in his position and much better looking. He applied lip balm with his pinkie while he talked. “There’s not a whole lot left to see.”

“There’s really only one thing I need to see.” Special Agent Emma Behrent wore her auburn hair in a ponytail threaded through the back of her FBI ball cap and the customary blue and gold windbreaker and jeans. She carried a Glock 23 .40 caliber in a sling under her left shoulder and a plastic grocery bag in her right hand. “And I should be able to find it regardless of the physical condition of the remains.”

“You’re the boss. I’m telling you, though, this is by far one of the worst I’ve seen.”

“I appreciate your concern, Dr. Doleman, but you’d be surprised what I’ve seen in the last eight months.”

She followed him down the corridor, past the autopsy suites, and into the morgue. She’d grown accustomed to the smell of formaldehyde and sawed bones, a scent that reminded her of getting a cavity filled as a child, and yet she would never be adequately prepared for the scent that emerged from the locker when the ME opened it and slid the body out on its tray. A cross between thawed, freezer-burnt meat and bloody stool.

Doleman drew back the plastic sheet covering the remains, which came away glistening with greasy, suppurated fluids.

“She’s all yours, but don’t take too long. I want to get this one done before it gets any riper.”

Behrent removed a mini LED Maglite and a stainless steel probe from her jacket pocket and leaned over the body. Carefully, she used the probe to pry the bared teeth apart.

“If you let me know what you’re looking for, I’d be happy to help you find it.”

She pretended not to hear and directed the beam through the gap she’d created.

“What can you tell me about the physical condition of the decedent?” she asked.

Behrent already knew the woman’s name was Cassandra Hopkins and the first responders had arrived at 11:32 p.m. last night to find her horse barn in flames. The neighbor from the adjacent ranch had called 911 eighteen minutes prior, when she first smelled smoke and noticed the orange glow on the horizon. It took less than ten minutes to extinguish the fire and even fewer to find Ms. Hopkins’s burnt remains in the wreckage of what remained of one of the rear stables, beneath the charred rubble of the wooden roof. While the fire marshal’s report had yet to be released, Behrent had no doubt the fire would be ruled accidental in origin, as she’d seen so many times already.

“Fourth-degree burns over the entirety of her body. Significant eschar on her digits and face. Fixed rigor places her time of death within the last twelve hours. Lack of pustules and hypostasis indicates she was already dead before the fire consumed her. I’d lay odds the cause of death was asphyxiation—the most common cause of fire-related deaths—but until I crack her open, I won’t be able to tell you for sure.”

“You’re saying she was overcome by the smoke?”

“That’s how it works. The smoke first makes the victim cough, then, as it intensifies, limits their oxygen intake. As the brain receives less and less oxygen, it passes from dizziness and disorientation to outright loss of consciousness. They’re generally dead before the fire reaches them, or at least well on their way.”

“Nothing else you can think of that might have caused asphyxiation other than the smoke?”

Behrent pried the teeth as far apart as she could and angled the beam from side to side to better see into the dead woman’s blackened throat.

“You can tell by the tissues in her mouth and oropharynx—right there—that she was breathing the smoke. In my field, you quickly learn that the obvious explanation is nearly always the correct one.”

“Did you notice the puncture wounds on her wrists and ankles or the ones on her cheeks?”

“Like I said, I have yet to perform a thorough examination.”

“Have an obvious explanation for them?”

He made no reply.

“How about the lacerations in the back of the throat?”

She leaned aside so he could see where the light struck the back of the dead woman’s throat. The small cuts were barely visible behind the bulge of her desiccated tongue, but were readily apparent as the heat and smoke had caused the edges to darken and peel apart.

“That’s not the kind of thing you just happen to find. You’d have to know they were there to look for them. What aren’t you telling me?”

“Here. You hold her mouth open and I’ll show you.”

Dr. Doleman took the probe from her and applied traction to the mandible. Behrent opened the plastic bag and removed a canister of whipped cream. Shook it. Acknowledged the confusion on the ME’s face with a half-smile.

Within an hour of Ms. Hopkins’s death, Behrent had been on a plane from Las Vegas to Salt Lake City, where a rental car had been ready and waiting to take her down I-15 to Provo. She’d used the time in the air to learn everything she could about Ms. Hopkins, what little there was, anyway. She was a single, twenty-eight year-old horse trainer, who’d never gotten so much as a parking ticket and whose Facebook account was about as uninteresting as they came. She inherited the Whispering Glade Ranch from her grandfather two years earlier and appeared to have no ambition when it came to the business itself. She had been a reasonably attractive woman, in a plain sort of way, with a slender, athletic build, pale white skin, and—most importantly—natural flame-red hair.

“What do you intend to do with that?” the ME asked.

“She may have asphyxiated from the smoke, doctor, but she had a little help.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Where are the lights in here?”

“By the door, why…?”

Behrent killed them before he could finish his sentence. A bank of emergency lights on the other side of the morgue remained on, but it was dark enough to see what she’d flown four hundred miles and driven another sixty to see.

She stood beside Doleman, removed the cap from the whipped cream, and inserted the nozzle between the dead woman’s teeth.

“Are you familiar with the Lampyridae family of beetles?”

“They secrete a toxin called lucibufagin when threatened that can cause hypertension and cardiac symptoms in large quantities, but there’ve been no reported cases of respiratory symptoms, let alone death, in humans.”

“This particular family also has another unique trait. It has a specialized organ in its abdomen called a lantern, in which a combination of enzymes—luciferase and luciferin, specifically—produces a complex chemical reaction that’s converted to bioluminescence.”

“Fireflies.”

“Exactly. And each different species of firefly produces a slightly different reaction so as to create a unique color, but all of them require nitrous oxide to trigger the reaction and oxygen to turn it off. They accomplish this through a specially adapted means of breathing, but it can also be artificially stimulated by other means.”

She pressed the nozzle on the canister. Pressurized gas hissed into the victim’s mouth and down her throat. The reaction was instantaneous. Green spots glowed from the dead tissue. And faded every bit as quickly.

“What the hell was that?”

“You’ll find traces of the lucibufagin toxin in the scratches from the firefly’s legs. When it was forced down her throat, it triggered her gag reflex, which made her muscles spasm and start crushing it, squishing out some of the fluid from its abdomen, including its lantern. Just enough for one final glow.”

“How does someone force a firefly down another person’s throat?”

“He binds their wrists and ankles behind them with barbed wire and wraps it around their jaws so they can’t close their mouths.”

IV

Yesterday

Colorado Springs, Colorado

July 26th

Behrent sat on the foot of the bed in her room and stared at the patchwork of maps affixed to the wall above the small writing desk. They depicted the American Southwest, from Southern California through New Mexico and Arizona, and north into Nevada, Utah, and Colorado. Dozens of locations were marked with colored pushpins, beside which notes, names, and dates had been scribbled. Once she developed this system, the pattern jumped right out and bit her. Each pin represented an individual death matching her profile: asphyxiation by smoke and fourth-degree burns of a red-haired female in her twenties to early thirties, and each color corresponded to a different season. A blue pin indicated the victim had died during the winter; green during the spring; yellow during the summer; and red during the autumn. Each color was clustered geographically. Blue pins lined the coast from San Diego to Los Angeles. Green pins traced a line from Las Vegas to Salt Lake City. Yellow pins stretched from Denver to Santa Fe and red pins traversed the route from Las Cruces to Phoenix. And each and every one of those pins represented a different year, a single death by fire in each location every year, so few as not to stand out as a statistical anomaly, but more than enough to draw a direct correlation, if you knew what you were looking for.

One victim for each season in an annual cycle that started on the eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains in the summer, headed west through the Sonoran Desert in the fall, followed the Pacific coast in the winter, and completed the circle through the Mojave in the spring.

For six consecutive years.

And no one might ever have made the connection had the man she had come to think of as the Firebug not incinerated a twenty-seven year-old high school teacher in Colorado Springs, Colorado. Her name was Amelia Behrent and her older sister, a Special Agent working out of the field office in Denver, had dismissed her concerns that someone was stalking her three days earlier in what would be the last conversation they ever had.

That was thirteen months ago now, in what would come to be known as the worst summer for wildfires in the history of Colorado after a blaze a month later destroyed more than one hundred and fifty homes, forced the evacuation of more than ten thousand residents, and claimed the lives of a married couple, whose remains were found in a closet where they apparently took refuge in an attempt to flee the smoke.

It was in Amelia’s mouth—her little sister’s burnt mouth—that the presence of the lucibufagin toxin was first discovered. From the subsequent pathological assays, it was determined that the specific toxin was endemic to one particular species of firefly, Luciolinae luciola. A firefly native to Japan. One that had never been encountered on either the North or South American continent. One that could never have found its way into her sister’s mouth had someone not forced it inside.

The Japanese firefly averaged approximately an inch in length; however, based on the thin lacerations in the soft tissue, the one that had been inside her sister’s oropharynx was closer to two inches, presumably as the result of generations of selective captive breeding. Its lantern glowed an almost fluorescent green, and in traditional Japanese lore, represented the vessel in which the souls of the dead traveled.

The monster who murdered Amelia believed he was capturing the souls of his victims inside the fireflies and then incinerating every trace of evidence.

Or so he thought.

Behrent had discovered his modus operandi and had been hunting him ever since, coming closer to him with each passing season. She was slowly getting inside his head, gaining an understanding of how his mind worked, an appreciation for how he selected his victims. She’d studied the final days of each and every one of his victims in as much detail as she could find. They were all single and tended to live a more reclusive lifestyle. They were all routine-oriented, from shopping at the same grocery store on the same day to filling at the same gas station to taking the same routes to and from work at the same times every day. Theirs was a lifestyle of predictability, one that made them easy prey.

That was why Behrent rented this house two months ago, why she’d adopted a fictitious life of her own careful design. She’d gone to great lengths to make herself the most accessible target possible. The house was in an area known as Woodmen Valley, which featured houses on large lots surrounded by a vast wilderness of pines and aspens. The only way in or out of the development by vehicle was through a bottleneck granting ready access to I-25, the main thoroughfare from Denver to Santa Fe, while one could approach nearly invisibly on foot through the dense forest by merely straying from the public recreational trail or the railroad tracks to the east, walking overland from the Air Force Academy to the north, or wending through the newer neighborhoods to the west. She stopped at the same coffee shop at the same time every morning, drove the same stretch of highway across town to the same park where she walked around the same lake before heading to the same ground floor office where she worked at a computer in front of a window through which anyone passing her on the street could see her. She walked to lunch at the same sandwich shop at the same time every day, one clearly visible from two major downtown intersections and the highway, and drove home along the same stretch of highway at the same time, stopping only long enough at the same grocery store to shop for her evening meal, which she made in a kitchen surrounded by windows. As she had every day for the last two months.

The house had a security system that featured views from four exterior cameras she could watch on her laptop day and night, as could the agents posted in another rental house three blocks away. The same agents took turns following her to work in different vehicles and spent their days surveilling her leased office space from another unit on the fourth floor, while she watched the same feeds on her computer and pretended to be an accountant. It was a tedious routine that became more frustrating with the passage of each uneventful day. The only thing keeping her going was the relief from opening the morning paper and discovering that there had been no fire-related fatalities in his summer hunting grounds.

She set her laptop on the nightstand beside her bed and tilted the screen so she could clearly see it with her head on the pillow. Each of the four quadrants showed the same thing they did every night: aspen trees with leaves that shivered in the breeze, pines with swaying boughs, wavering waist-high weeds, clusters of scrub oak, and the seemingly sentient shadows lurking beneath and inside them. She picked up the two-way, battery-powered transceiver from beside it and brought it to her lips.

“Ten o’clock guys,” she said. “You know what that means.”

“You got everything locked down for sure?” Special Agent Troy Abrams asked from three blocks away, where he watched the same feeds as she did. His partner, SA Warren Young, took the first shift sleeping.

“Crap. I thought you guys were going to lock up.”

“That gets funnier every night, Behrent. Anything to report? We’re still tracking the same commuter vehicles on this end, but so far they all check out. Just ordinary folks going to and from work at the same time as you. And no one out and about in the neighborhood. You see anything we’re missing?”

“Today was the second day in a row there was a jogger at the lake who—”

“Davis Peele. He’s a solar engineer for Excel. Nothing about him stands out.”

“And the guy at the coffee shop?”

“Neal Alpert. Mortgage broker. Removes his wedding ring in his car every morning before going in. I think he’s sweet on you.”

“Wonderful. Anything on your end?”

“All’s quiet on the western front.”

“Do me a favor. See if you can put together a database of car and foot traffic by day of the week. I want to see if there are any patterns there that we might not have recognized.”

“We’ll see what we can do. You want any company up there tonight?”

“That gets funnier every night, Abrams.”

“Get some sleep, princess. Tomorrow promises to be another day like every other.”

“One of these days it won’t be.”

Behrent set the transceiver back on the nightstand. She watched the security cameras around her house and thought about her little sister until sleep finally took her.

V

Nine Months Ago

Tucson, Arizona

October 14th

Behrent clicked on her flashlight and stepped across the threshold where once the front door of the small stucco house had stood. Broken ceramic tiles crunched underfoot. The floorboards were still soft from the sheer quantity of water they’d absorbed. The plaster of the walls had been consumed, exposing the burnt skeletal framework, through which she could see the blackened appliances in the kitchen, the remains of the furniture in the living room, the tiled bathroom, and the nearly unidentifiable furniture in the bedroom. Firefighters had found the victim, a twenty-six year-old leasing agent named Ashley Freeman, in the walk-in closet, where she appeared to have been trapped by a fire that originated in the kitchen.

All that was left of the closet now was a soggy mess of the burnt contents of the fallen shelves toward the rear. She nudged through them with the toe of her shoe. She didn’t know what she hoped to accomplish by coming out here. Maybe a part of her hoped she might stumble upon something the firemen and the fire inspector missed. She knew deep down, though, that if anything had ever been here, if the fire hadn’t destroyed it, then the high-pressure hoses had. Or maybe she just needed the right setting to put her in the proper frame of mind to contemplate the profile Behavioral had generated for her.

Their unknown subject was a Caucasian male in his mid- to late-thirties. There was nothing extraordinary about his appearance, one way or the other. He would have stood apart from the crowd while stalking them if he was anything other than unexceptional, which excluded his having red hair himself. He was of average height and unthreatening build, and above-average intellect. His had a white-collar job that required significant travel or lengthy periods of relocation. Behrent had initially suspected a trucker or someone in the interstate shipping business as his hunting grounds followed the course of the major highway routes: I-5 up the coast of California, I-15 and I-70 through Nevada and Utah, I-25 from Colorado to New Mexico, and I-10 and I-8 back through Arizona to Los Angeles, each chosen by the season when a death by fire would be least likely to stand out and betray his pattern.

The sadistic nature of the barbed wire bondage suggested both sexual and emotional dysfunction. Binding their wrists and ankles behind their backs was meant to make them feel utterly helpless; his way of demonstrating his control over them when he believed he was in control of so little else in his life. The barbed wire itself was more than a means of ensuring they wouldn’t be able to move or close their mouths, it was to deliberately inflict the greatest amount of pain on a category of victim that represented a female in his life who had wronged him in some way. An ex-lover or object of his affections who spurned his advances. A person in a position of trust from his childhood who abused that relationship, possibly a teacher or family friend. Someone who manipulated his emotions and made him feel physically inadequate.

Maybe it was that association that had drawn him subconsciously to fire in the first place, a correlation between the red hair and the flames or its indomitable will and that of the person who imposed hers upon him.

It was that fascination with fire that stood out most. Something about its destructive and irresistible nature spoke to him on a primal level. Perhaps it was the way that fire killed in an almost merciful manner before violently consuming its victims; a dichotomous aspect of its nature that reminded him of himself. He knew it intimately, respected it to a degree that could almost be classified as worship. And he understood its actions under various environmental conditions and how to control it to such a degree as to make its origin appear accidental, how to bend the flames to his will. The profile suggested his affinity dawned at an early age and he’d chosen a career path that allowed him to work with it from a distance, in potentially some form of research or investigatory capacity, some job that allowed him to further develop his relationship with it, to hone his ability to control it, rather than putting him in a position of having to destroy it. On some level he resented and abhorred firefighters, which would make him want to spend as little time in their presence as possible and his interactions with them strained, if not downright hostile.

And then there were the fireflies, which he had somehow romanticized. Theirs was a fire of their own creation that they could turn on and off at will, one that could only be extinguished in death, one that it used to attract its most suitable mate. Perhaps that was what he was trying to do on some level, attempting to win over the woman who rebuked him or to catch the eye of the one who never noticed him. Or maybe he really believed he was capturing the souls of his victims inside their abdominal lanterns. Whatever the case, his use of the Japanese species reflected a westernized, literal interpretation of the mythology that suggested his knowledge came from books rather than from firsthand experience.

Yet none of that knowledge brought Behrent any closer to finding the man who murdered her sister.

She kicked the moldering pile of debris and screamed in frustration.

A light snapped on in the window of the house next door. Its fence was scored with carbon and the bushes lining it were brown and wilted.

She clicked off her flashlight and stared up into the night sky. The stars made her feel even more insignificant than she already felt. She’d discounted her sister’s fears and allowed her to be killed and then let another innocent woman die because she couldn’t catch the man who did it. At this point, she didn’t even know where to begin. He’d been doing this for so long now that he had it down to a science and she had only just figured out that he existed at all.

Behrent stepped out of the scorched wooden framework of the closet, no better off than she’d been when she arrived. She caught movement from the back yard.

Stopped.

Her right hand found the butt of her Glock.

At first she thought she’d seen flashlights at a distance, but that couldn’t possibly be the case with the fence less than thirty feet away. She walked across the cracked pavestones and the flooded ornamental rock garden to where a half-dozen blinking golden lights swirled around a bird fountain.

It was the same kind she and her sister used to catch when they were children. They hadn’t called them fireflies in Colorado back then.

They’d called them firebugs.

VI

Today

Colorado Springs, Colorado

July 27th

Behrent surreptitiously watched the passersby on the sidewalk over her computer monitor. She recognized the regulars by now, but not well enough to feel confident that one of them wasn’t her guy. Even the dogs they walked could be props. In a neighborhood like this, a man fitting the Firebug’s profile would blend in just about perfectly. Assuming she’d even done enough to attract his attention. And there was still the chance that after spending so much time stalking her sister he’d recognized her right off the bat. She and Amelia hadn’t looked as similar as a lot of sisters she knew, but they did look enough alike that there was no mistaking the resemblance if they stood side-by-side.

Amelia.

There were so many things Behrent wished she’d done differently. So many things she wished she’d had the chance to say. Most of all, she wished she could hear her sister’s voice, her laugh, if only one last time. All she could do now was make sure that this monster didn’t kill again, and even that was starting to feel like a hopeless proposition.

She’d gone through every case file so many times she could almost recite them by heart. She knew the names of all twenty-three of his victims, knew nearly as much about them as their mothers did. There was nothing to link them together outside of their physical similarities and their geographical locations. She’d pulled on every possible string she could think to pull, from first boyfriends to jilted lovers to coworkers and neighbors with criminal records. She’d looked into nearly every interstate sales and distribution firm and thousands of their employees. She’d beaten her head against every possible wall in hopes of making the breakthrough that eluded her. If she hadn’t done enough to attract him, then he was just going to keep on killing until she figured out another way to stop him. And the blame for every death hereafter would fall squarely on her shoulders.

This was her one best chance and she knew it. If he’d seen her here and then saw her three months from now outside of Phoenix, he’d make her in a heartbeat. And if he went to ground, there would be nothing they could do about it until he popped back up on their radar.

If he ever did.

He was nothing if not patient, which in many ways marked him as unique among serial killers. Most enjoyed periods of escalation, during which their bloodlust became so insatiable they accelerated their timetables and took risks they might not ordinarily take. This was when they were most likely to be caught. Yet not once had her unsub given in to his primal urges and broken from his pattern. Not once had he taken a victim out of season. His restraint bordered on superhuman. To think that not once had he slipped...

Behrent tapped her fingernails on her desk as she stared out the window. A woman in spandex jogged past behind a stroller.

What if he had slipped and they simply hadn’t noticed?

She closed her eyes and tried to follow that elusive line of thought. If he’d taken another victim who fit the profile, she would have caught it right away. She’d searched every fire-related death across the country during the past six years so as not to see only what she wanted to see. Approximately 2,500 people died every year in residential fires, the majority of them children under four and adults over sixty-five. She opened her eyes. What if he only picked off a victim here or there, just enough to keep the demons at bay?

Behrent logged into the U.S. Fire Administration database on her laptop. What if she factored out those age groups, as well as the most common at-risk groups? Smoking was the leading cause of fire-related deaths and alcohol use was the single greatest contributing factor. African and Native Americans represented the greatest cross-section of fatalities, as did people who lived in rural areas and prefabricated homes. She limited it to the previous year, filtered out all of those factors, and initiated a search.

Still more than six hundred deaths.

She broke it down further into just the six southwestern states.

Forty-eight.

January through March. California.

Five deaths. She read the brief summaries. A fifty-six year-old female in Sherman Oaks died after improperly stored linseed oil caught fire. A seventeen year-old male in Sacramento while attempting to make a pipe bomb in his garage. Moira O’Reilly, victim number eighteen. Two twenty-four year-old males in Barstow in a meth lab.

March through June. Nevada and Utah.

Four deaths. A forty-three year-old male and twenty-six year-old female in a one-car accident that resulted in the gas tank exploding. A sixty-three year-old female in Reno who failed to put out a grease fire. Natalie Wilkins, victim number nineteen.

June through September. Colorado and Arizona.

Five deaths. Amelia Behrent—her baby sister—victim number twenty. Four fatalities associated with the Mountain Vista Fire, which burned more than a hundred and fifty homes and forced the evacuation of nearly ten thousand people: two volunteer firefighters—a fifty-one year-old male from Saguache and a twenty-eight year-old male from Lincoln, Nebraska—and a forty-eight year-old male and forty-seven year-old female, whose remains were discovered in the rubble of their home within the evacuation zone.

She looked out the window again. At the mail carrier walking down the opposite side of the street with his bag over his shoulder. At the teenage girl who managed to juggle a Starbucks cup, a cell phone, and a purse, while carrying a dog that looked more like a rodent. At the lengthening shadows of the trees stretching across the road.

A middle-age couple who stayed in their home even as the fire consumed the houses surrounding them and the air filled with smoke.

The worst summer for wildfires in the history of the state.

She tapped her nails on the desk again.

Opened a new window and initiated a search. Their names were Raymond and Carol Waldon and their remains were found in what was left of their house at 136 Ponderosa Lane, near the theorized source of the fire. All sixteen houses on their street burned to the ground before the first emergency responders arrived on the scene. The majority of their neighbors had been at work, but those who were at home when the flames swept up the slope of dry grass and shrubs claimed to have smelled the smoke with enough time to hurriedly pack and evacuate before they saw the first hint of fire. Even their retired neighbors managed to flee before their houses were gutted. Only Raymond and Carol Waldon remained to watch the fire rise up like a tsunami and crash down upon their home. Only Raymond and Carol, the local franchisee of a national insurance company and his wife, organizer of an annual 5K race to benefit breast cancer research.

Behrent stared at their pictures on the screen. Maybe Raymond was past his prime, but looked like the kind of guy who jogged in the morning and spent his weekends on the links. Carol was obviously a runner and still in the kind of shape she enjoyed flaunting in tennis shorts and spandex. These weren’t the kind of people who were generally the first to be overcome by smoke, nor were they the kind who had all of their money tied up in their physical possessions. They were undoubtedly so well insured they could have walked away from their incinerated house better off for it. So what caused them to stay in their house while those around them fled? Why were a businessman and a socialite both home on a weekday anyway?

Behrent pulled her cell phone from her purse and dialed a number she knew by heart.

“We’re knocking off early today, boys,” she said. “There are a couple of stops I want to make on the way home.”

She hung up and stared through the window. A man stood beside the thick trunk of an elm across the street, staring right back at her. The hood of his sweatshirt was drawn down low so she couldn’t see his eyes, only the smile that formed on his lips when he caught her looking.

A UPS truck emerged from the corner of her vision.

When it passed, the man was gone.

VII

“I’m telling you,” Behrent said. “He was there.”

Young flashed through a series of menus on his tablet as they hiked up the steep path between the new growth of aspens and willows and scrub oaks that were barely taller than they were. Only the occasional chunk of blackened wood or scorched earth showed through the grass and weeds as a reminder of the devastation. A year ago, this entire valley, right up through the foothills and into the Rockies, had burned for nearly two weeks straight. She remembered news footage of smoke so thick you could barely see the headlights of cars, policemen in respirators directing traffic with glowing embers settling on their shoulders, firefighters with black faces and goggles chopping down acres of forest in a rushed effort to build a firebreak while the same violent wind that fanned the flames hurled ashes and cinders into their faces, cars lined bumper-to-bumper on all of the roads leading away from a mountain made of flames. It was the kind of nightmare that would have scarred her, were she not already completely overwhelmed by the grief of losing her sister in such a horrific manner only weeks before.

“I can access the security footage from here and you can see for yourself,” Young said. He was as broad as he was tall and wore his blond hair buzzed short. He’d left his cap and windbreaker in the car, but his physique and bearing still screamed law enforcement, if his sunglasses didn’t give him away first. Abrams waited with the cars at the foot of the trail, simultaneously scrutinizing the traffic wending upward into the neighborhood and filing his report for the day’s surveillance. “Right about quarter to one, you say?”

“12:43. I made sure to note the time.”

He passed her the tablet and she selected the quadrant that gave her the best chance of seeing the man she positively knew had been there. The camera was positioned in such a way as to focus on the sidewalk in front of the office building and anyone who so much as slowed to look at her through the window. The cars parked at the meters along the curb were clearly visible, as was the asphalt beyond them. Traffic passed in colored blurs. She could read the license plates of the cars parked diagonally across the street and hints of the opposite sidewalk between them. She saw just the thinnest strip of grass at the top of the screen, the very bottoms of the trunks of the elms, and the uneven earth from which their thick roots snaked. She located the tree behind which the man had stood and watched it clear up until the brown blur of the UPS truck eclipsed it.

“I’m sorry, Behrent. If he was there, we didn’t get him.”

“What do you mean ‘if’?”

He held up his hands when she rounded on him.

“No offense. It’s just that we’ve been running through this same routine for so long we’re starting to look for things that might not be there, you know? All of us, Behrent. Abrams and I both feel like we’re projecting what we want to see rather than observing what we actually do see.”

Behrent backed up the recording and played it again. She watched the very top edge of the screen and nothing else. A shadow appeared on the grass. It moved ever so slightly, but not in time with those of the branches of the trees. A brown blur. When it passed, the shadow was gone.

“Watch the very top of the recording.” She passed the tablet back to him. “Then tell me I’m seeing things.”

“Emma…”

She tried to recreate his image in her mind, but the harder she concentrated, the more elusive he became. All she clearly remembered was the hood of his sweatshirt drawn low over his brow so that his eyes remained in shadow. She remembered a lower face like any other and a smile unlike any she’d ever seen before. It was the kind of smile that belied the expression, the kind that would haunt her until her dying breath.

It was predatory.

Evil.

The trail wound back to the north and granted her a magnificent view of the valley. A dry streambed lined with saplings cut through the bottom. It was clogged with charcoaled chunks of trees that had run downward from the higher country. Grasses that shimmered golden in the afternoon sun lined the northeastern slope. Ripples raced upward toward the houses perched on the crest with each gust of wind.

The fire started somewhere down there and ran uphill through the dry grass, growing taller as it gained momentum. In a matter of minutes, it crowned the knoll, consumed the hedges, and sped across the lawns. By the time all was said and done, one hundred and fifty-three houses had burned to the ground and there was a great black stain upon the mountains large enough to be seen from space. As no source of the fire had been identified, the investigation had turned to arson. The case remained open.

Behrent imagined a man with his hood drawn over his eyes standing downhill in the shadows of the mature pines. He held something silver in his hand. A flick of his wrist and it produced flame. He smiled at her and touched the flame to the crisp mat of dead leaves and pine needles and vanished into the smoke as the wind accelerated the flames up the hillside toward the conspicuous gap amid the new construction.

She broke away from the trail and ascended through the spear grass and yuccas and cacti. The topsoil was crisp with windswept charcoal and crunched underfoot. She stopped in what had once been the back yard of the Waldon house and stared downhill. The way the wind blew, she could almost see the exact path the fire had taken. A total distance of maybe a hundred yards and it would have been visible the entire time. It looked like it would have reached the neighboring house to the north first, then followed the topography right across the back of Raymond and Carol Waldon’s.

“Abrams just received the coroner’s report,” Young said. “He’s forwarding it now.”

Behrent nodded as she surveyed the neighborhood. The houses to either side of her were brand new and composed of brick and stone with ceramic-tiled roofs. Same with the ones across the street. Only this one lot had yet to be built upon, presumably because the insurance guarantor was tied up in court battling being held to the full payout for an expensive home that was only going to be inherited by the Waldons’ children and resold for a profit while the company was stuck with the tab.

The house had been razed, but the foundation remained intact. She could see where the garden level main floor opened onto the yard. There would have been a door and windows giving right onto the yard. The fire would have been clearly visible through any of them. The black nubs of the posts that once supported a balcony framed the patio. There’d been a fireplace off of the family room and a door accessing the three-car garage, now a cracked apron collecting puddles of water. Another concrete pad spread across the leveled hillside where the kitchen and formal living room had once been. She walked around to the front steps and tried to find where the foyer closet in which the Waldons died had been. She stood inside what remained of the frame and turned in a circle.

The fire had rushed uphill toward the back of the house. There would have been no hope if fleeing in that direction. That left the garage door and the front door, both of which opened on the complete opposite side of the house from the flames. Why had they not gone out either, and instead chosen to hide where she stood now? Raymond had underwritten enough insurance policies to know that there was absolutely no percentage in trying to save his physical possessions and that the most important thing for anyone to do in case of a fire was get the hell out of the building.

“Here we go. You want the husband or the wife first?”

“The husband.”

“Decedent: Raymond Leonard Waldon. Autopsy: ECCS070113-06C. Autopsy authorized by Dr. William Gustafson for the El Paso County Coroner’s Office. Identified by dental records. Rigor: absent. Livor: purple to black. Distribution: left ankle, hip, and shoulder. Age: forty-eight. Race—”

“Skip ahead to the findings.”

“External Examination: Fourth-degree burns with significant eschar development cover ninety to ninety-five percent of the surface area. The remaining five to ten percent have second- to third-degree burns and represent the points of contact with the ground. No pustule formation. The third through fifth digits on the right hand and the lateral four digits on each foot are absent. No indication of traumatic amputation.”

Behrent listened as she walked through what was left of the house. She kicked at detritus that had blown into corners and inspected anything left of the original construction, no matter how small or burnt.

“X-rays: Total body x-rays demonstrate heat-induced patina fractures of the calvarium and skull base and transverse fractures of bilateral scapulae and ilia. A fracture of the right ulnar styloid process appears perimortem. As do the penetrating injuries to the cortices and cancellous bony surfaces of the bilateral radii and ulnae, and tibiae and fibulae, and, to a lesser degree, the occipital bones.”

“Son of a bitch,” Behrent said. “This was our guy, all right. But what made him break his pattern to go after these people?”

“Do you want me to keep going?”

“Skip ahead to cause of death.”

“Asphyxiation.”

“Manner of death?”

“Accidental.”

“Disposition of the remains?”

“Cremation.”

“Damn it. Any further mention of the non-heat-induced fractures?”

“They found them buried under the second story of the house, Behrent.”

She knelt, brushed through a pile of detritus that had accumulated in a corner of the foundation on the main floor, and extricated a twisted length of rusted metal. Rolled it over in her palm. Wiped it off with her shirt. Held it up to the sun and inspected it. It was maybe an inch long, all told. Coiled twice in the center and sharp on either end. No doubt about it.

It was a barb from a length of barbed wire fencing.

VIII

“I’m Douglas Waldon.” The twenty-five year-old broker extended his hand. He was the eldest child of Raymond and Carol and looked like a miniature version of his father. “How can I help you?”

Behrent shook his hand and used it to guide him away from the assistant who’d fetched him from his office.

“Can we talk in private?”

His expression was one of confusion, but he gestured toward the office door and allowed her to lead the way. She was already seated when he closed the door and took his seat on the opposite side of the desk from her.

“What can I do for you, Miss…”

“Behrent.” She flashed her badge. “Special Agent Behrent. I have some questions I hope you’ll be able to answer for me.”

“Sure. If I can.”

His face and posture were both open. No sign of deception in either. He was a recent graduate of the business school at the University of Northern Colorado and had been in the process of completing his training at the corporate headquarters of the agency franchisor when his parents died. Now he was the inheritor of more than just his father’s job.

The office had obviously belonged to his father, as well. While the framed picture on  his desk was of an attractive brunette about Douglas’s age and his diplomas and certifications adorned the walls, the remaining framed pictures on the wall were of his father with various people Behrent didn’t recognize.

She’d learned on the drive over that the fire had nearly crippled Douglas on a personal level. The loss of his parents was compounded by the losses of his clients. Having to deal with so many families whose entire lives had gone up in smoke inside their burnt homes, all of their tears, and all of their condolences had driven him to the point of discreetly trying to sell the office and seeking psychiatric care.

The last thing she wanted to do was to tell him that she believed his parents’ deaths hadn’t been accidental.

“This is a regional office,” Behrent said. “Is that right?”

“Yes, this is the base of operations for the southwestern region. We handle the insurance needs of roughly two million people out of offices in six different states, including the southern half of California.”

“Who runs those offices?”

“Managing partners who essentially enter into a subcontract agreement. Our overall percentage is relatively small compared to what the parent company makes, especially considering we bear the brunt of the risk.” He paused. “Can I ask what this is all about?”

She’d come prepared with a story.

“We’re investigating fraud in an industry with a similar organizational structure and we’re looking for a better understanding of the overall functionality and accountability.” He nodded as though the explanation made a certain amount of sense. “So what I want to know is how you oversee all of these managing partners, how you make sure they toe your line.”

“We have weekly managerial meetings via FaceTime and bi-annual organizational retreats.”

“That doesn’t sound like a whole lot of supervision.”

“We invest a lot of time into researching our prospective partners and limit our appointments to only those agencies we’ve identified as having long-term growth and profit potential. We’re not only accountable to our partners and our clients, but to our parent company and its shareholders. As such, we also employ a regional supervisor who serves as our proxy and performs monthly physical and financial audits to ensure that both image and accountability are in compliance with corporate standards.”

A tingling sensation passed through Behrent’s abdomen.

“This proxy physically travels to each of the individual offices once a month?”

She had to concentrate to regulate her breathing.

“He’s on the road two weeks out of the month. It’s a good thing we’re paying for the car and not the mileage.”

“And which states are in your region?”

“Arizona, Southern California, Colorado, Nevada, New Mexico, and Utah.”

Her mouth was dry, her palms damp.

“I wonder if it would be possible to talk to this proxy.”

“I’m sure Wes would be happy to help you out. He’s one of the nicest guys on the planet. He’s still on the road, though. You want me to give you his cell phone number?”

“Sure, but I’ll probably just wait for him to get back.” She attempted a smile. “How long has he been with the company?”

“I don’t know for sure. Five, six years? He’s been here since before I came on.”

The ground tilted underneath her.

“Is he in any of these pictures?”

Her heartbeat.

Thupp-thupp. Thupp-thupp. Thupp-thupp.

“Yeah, that’s him up there with my dad and John Elway.”

Blood rushing in her ears.

She stood and leaned closer to the picture. Three smiling men in suits in a luxury box at Sports Authority Stadium. Two of them she recognized, but it wasn’t until she reached up and covered the upper half of the third man’s face that she recognized him, too.

“What did you say his name was again?”

“Wes. Wes Moore.”

IX

The ranch-style house was located on five heavily wooded acres northeast of town. It was built in the late seventies and showed its age. The majority of the driveway was gravel and weeds grew from the cracks in the concrete apron by the garage. There were blackout blinds over every window and it was impossible to tell whether or not there was a car in the garage. Despite the younger Waldon’s insistence that Wes Moore was still out of town and the GPS in his company Explorer showed its current location to be in eastern Utah, Behrent knew what she had seen and wasn’t prepared to take any chances.

CSPD officers had every road into and out of the area closed off and secured. Moore’s immediate neighbors had been evacuated and were currently under federal protection and Young’s supervision, although so far none of them used anything other than kind words when asked about Mr. Moore. Snipers had taken up position in the ponderosa pines and SWAT teams were prepared to go through the front and back doors on her mark. She and Abrams wore Kevlar vests beneath their fire-retardant gear and were prepared to follow SWAT through the front door. Behrent knew that her evidence was circumstantial at best and that she wasn’t the only person who’d climbed out onto a limb on this takedown, but she’d be the one who took the fall if it failed. Were it not for the fact that Moore had potentially caused the most destructive fire in the history of the state and cost the community more than forty million dollars in firefighter expenses, there was no way any judge would have executed the warrant. That he’d been one of Raymond Waldon’s weekend golf buddies probably played a considerable role, too.

This was her one and only shot.

A miss, and Moore likely walked, free and clear.

If he was even the man she’d seen for the briefest of moments across the street.

Her transceiver crackled.

“On your mark, Special Agent Behrent.”

From where she knelt roughly a hundred yards away behind a stand of junipers, she could barely see the house, let alone the men with Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns and full tactical gear hidden in the bushes, prepared to converge on either door on her go. A single knock and either Moore opened the door or they knocked it down and went in hard and fast through the smoke and blinding glare of a flashbang.

“You sure about this?” Abrams whispered. “We don’t get a do-over on this one.”

Behrent drew a deep breath and blew it out slowly to steady her nerves. Her hands shook and she could barely think over the thrum of her heartbeat. She rolled her head on her neck. Was she sure? If she was wrong, her sister’s murderer would remain on the streets to kill again.

And again.

She stared at the house through the maze of trees.

She’d never been more certain of anything in her life.

She pressed the button on her transceiver.

“I want him taken alive.”

A half-dozen men in black materialized from the forest, streaking toward the front door.

She readjusted her grip on her Glock.

One raised his fist and pounded on the door. Stepped back. Paused. Two others moved in front of him, a battering ram held between them. They drew it back, swung it forward—

A blinding light.

Behrent barely had time to raise her arm to shield her eyes. A wall of heated air struck her and tossed her backward onto the ground. She heard a thunderous crack, then nothing over the ringing in her ears.

She opened her eyes and looked up to find the branches above her burning. Pine needles curled and blackened and rained down to the forest floor. She tried to stand. Couldn’t. She was on her back, her fire-retardant jacket smoldering on her chest.

The high-pitched tone in her head toyed with her vision. Her balance.

She fought to her feet. Swayed. Stumbled forward. Fell to her knees. Grabbed her two-way from the ground. Shouted into the microphone.

“The place was rigged to blow! Everyone’s dead!”

She pushed herself to her feet. Staggered toward the house.

The bushes and weeds all around her were on fire. As were the body parts scattered across the dirt between them. She couldn’t hear the crackle of the flames or her own voice as she shouted for survivors. Only the infernal hum.

One of the snipers dangled from a fiery pine by the cord he’d used to secure himself. His entire body still burned. Even his skin.

A hand on her shoulder.

She screamed. Turned around. Thrust her pistol into Abrams’s face.

His face was black with soot and blood flowed freely from a gash across his hairline. His nostrils and lips were caked with ash. He pinched his eyes shut tight. Steadied himself against her shoulder. Opened his eyes and pointed at his ear.

She nodded her understanding and made a sweeping gesture toward the ground. Judging by the expression on his face, he obviously hadn’t seen what had happened to the SWAT team yet.

Both raised their weapons and advanced toward the house. The smoke grew thicker and the heat intensified. The detritus underfoot served as the perfect fuel for the fire, which raced across the forest floor in every direction.

Behrent struggled with the realization that the front door had been rigged with explosives. She’d never considered the possibility. For her lack of foresight, sixteen men had paid with their lives.

There was a crater where the front door had been and the flaming roof had collapsed into the living room. Glass from the shattered windows twinkled like rubies. The garage door was buckled outward far enough to see the rear bumper and tires of an SUV inside.

Behrent coughed and buried her mouth and nose in the crook of her left arm, which did little to spare her the smoke. She could barely see her Glock in her extended right hand through the smoke, which obscured the house, save for the flames burning from the impromptu entrance.

The heat was hellacious, like nothing she’d ever experienced before. It singed what little hair had come untucked from beneath her cap and made her eyes water so badly she could hardly keep them open. She choked and coughed and felt the dry smoke invade her lungs. It swirled on the waves of heat, revealing just the hint of a living room full of furniture burned to the bare wooden framework before hiding it once more.

Beneath the ringing she heard the faintest roar of the inferno, so loud in actuality that it reverberated in her chest. She felt Abrams’s shoulder against hers and drew strength from his proximity.

The smoke funneled through the back of the kitchen, where she could only assume the back door had once been. The doors must have been rigged to blow together. The appliances were crumpled and smoldering and melted glass had fused to the linoleum.

There was a hallway to the right, past the stairs leading down through the smoke and into the basement. She shouted directly into Abrams’s ear for him to guard them while she cleared a guest bedroom that had been converted into a home office and a master bedroom that looked like something out of a catalogue. Only actively burning. Wherever he slept, it wasn’t in there.

“Watch the smoke!” Abrams shouted into her ear when she returned to the head of the stairs.

It took her a moment to see what he meant. The smoke neither moved up nor down the staircase; it merely filled the space between the walls on the landing below.

There was no airflow.

The fires burning all around them were drawing air through the blast holes, through the broken windows, down the flue from the chimney. She could positively feel it rushing past her, feeding the flames that would soon consume this entire structure.

The basement was sealed.

Behrent nodded to Abrams and started down. One step at a time. Holding her breath in an effort not to cough, which made her chest lurch. She followed her pistol down to the landing, then around to the flight leading into the basement.

The door at the bottom and the surrounding wall were covered with blown insulation secured by a layer of foil. The door itself had a pressurized seal and a wide handle and reminded her of the kind they manufactured for industrial coolers. It made a popping sound when she pulled it open.

The air screamed around the seal and past her face, sending her cap bounding up the stairs. She braced her feet and lowered her shoulder to absorb the impact with the door, which nearly knocked her to the ground.

She stepped out of the way and it slammed into the wall hard enough to embed the handle in the drywall.

Behrent stared into the unblemished darkness with cool air that smelled of damp earth buffeting her in the face.

Sighted down the barrel of her Glock.

Swallowed hard to stifle a cough.

And advanced into the pitch black.

X

The rushing sound of blood in her ears metered the high-pitched ringing.

She swiveled from left to right, praying to see anything at all. Her sense of hearing was shot and she couldn’t see a blasted—

A beam of light streaked across the basement from the mini-Maglite in Abrams’s hand as he pulled the door shut behind them, sealing off the smoke and the flames. He flashed it quickly from one side of the basement to the other, then more slowly back again.

Insulation that had to be several feet thick covered the walls and the only windows were sealed with metal sheets screwed into the frames. Skeletal framework cast long, thin shadows across the floor leading up to what she at first mistook for an indoor garden.

Carefully tended bonsai trees and ferns grew from a rich medium of black soil and sphagnum moss. Running water flowed along the ground between them in a wide, winding oval shape, in the center of which was a small pond with stagnant water and lily pads. Abrams shined his beam down into it and inch-long nymphs wriggled down under the rocks.

Behrent took him by the wrist and raised his arm so the beam pointed into the trees. There were large beetles everywhere. Crawling up the trunks and on the branches, on the undersides of the leaves and all over one another. She leaned over and touched one with her index finger.

Its hind end emitted a greenish glow as it took to flight.

The response spread through the startled fireflies until the entire room lit up like it had been strung with Christmas lights.

She shuddered at the thought of what Moore intended to do with them.

There was a lone egress behind the habitat. Another freezer door set into the insulated wall. Abrams’s beam focused on the handle as they worked their way around the habitat and the banks of lights and filters that serviced it. Behrent reached it first and closed her hand around it.

Cool to the touch.

Abrams shined the beam around the seams. No indication of tripwires or other rigging. They could easily be on the other side, though.

Along with her sister’s murderer.

Behrent pantomimed for Abrams to step to the opposite side of the door while she swung it outward toward her. He’d go through low while she came high around the open door.

She held up five fingers.

Four fingers.

Three.

She finished the count silently while Abrams watched her lips.

Two.

Adjusted her grip on the handle with her left. The Glock with her right.

One.

Pulled the handle. Fought the suction. Felt the release. Swung the door wide open.

A blur of darkness as Abrams ducked around the wall and across the threshold.

Behrent shouldered past the rebounding door and registered a flickering reflection from the wall of glass at the back of the room. Smelled a petrochemical accelerant. Raised her Glock. Shouted for Abrams.

He turned to his right. Brought his pistol around.

Too slowly.

She saw another reflection on what she recognized as a trophy case, the reflection of a man in shimmering silver. He stepped forward from around the corner and the nozzle of a flamethrower appeared, a tongue of fire protruding from it. Mere inches from Abrams’s head.

The expulsion of flames was blinding. A molten liquid wrapped around his skull and filled the doorway. He screamed and threw himself to the ground. Covered his head with his arms, which only started to burn, too.

Deep black smoke billowed through the doorway as Behrent shoved through, bringing her weapon to bear on the golden face shield of the silver fire entry suit. She saw her distorted reflection in it. The flames burning up the wall behind her. Her wild eyes. The barrel of her Glock.

Searing heat encircled her abdomen. Her skin blistered and her clothes ignited.

She screamed and pulled the trigger.

The pistol bucked.

A black hole appeared in the golden mask. Cracks spread away from it.

A starburst of blood spattered the wall behind the silver hood.

The report was deafening.

The impact lifted the man from his feet. Slammed him against the wall. He lost his grip on the flamethrower and the molten rainbow splashed across the floor toward the glass case. He toppled to the ground with the clanking sound of the tanks on his back striking the concrete.

Behrent fell to her hands and knees in front of him, her entire midsection engulfed in fire.

She screamed as the pain took root beneath her skin.

Fell to her chest. Rolled over and over. Smothered the flames. Ignited the nerve endings.

Struggled to all fours. Crawled toward the man slumped against the wall in his silver fire entry suit. Pulled off the hood. Looked into his eyes. One was bloody and misshapen and fringed with bone shards; the other barely acknowledged her before rolling upward under the lid. Blood ran down his cheek and dripped from his chin.

“Not yet!” she screamed and crawled back out through the doorway. Every muscle in her abdomen and lower back sang in pain. Fluid dripped from burns that felt as though they’d eaten clear through her. An icy sensation crept upward from her toes. “You don’t get to die yet!”

She found what she needed and dragged herself back to where the liquid fire spread across the floor toward the trophy case. Crawled into the murderer’s lap. Felt his legs tremble. Pulled herself up his chest. Opened his one good eye as wide as it would go. The iris slowly rolled down until she saw the pupil and the fading light in its depths.

Behrent held up the object so he could see it. Watched its reflection as revelation dawned, before being eclipsed by sheer terror.

Epilogue

Colorado Springs, Colorado

August 3rd

Behrent sat on the back porch of her rented house, watching the shadows of the trees lengthen across the mat of brown needles and leaves. The first stars twinkled through the upper canopy of the pines even as the crimson sun set behind the Rockies on the other side of her house. The night air felt divine in her lungs, and even better against the skin underneath her T-shirt. For a while she thought she might never feel anything other than pain again. The doctors assured her the skin grafts were healing nicely, although they still had a patchwork look to them. Not that she was complaining. Abrams had gotten the worst of it and it would be months before what was left of his face would be healed enough to even attempt a graft. Longer still before he’d be released from the plastic isolation chamber in the burn unit. He served as a daily reminder of just how lucky she’d been.

Weston Franklyn Moore wasn’t quite as fortunate. He hadn’t been able to reach the escape tunnel from the back room in the basement, which would have allowed him to pop up outside of the police cordon and vanish forever. No one was entirely certain whether he’d stuck around to finish off his pursuit or to protect his case full of trophies. Likely, no one ever would. As it was, the teams from Behavioral had their hands full trying to make sense of everything they found down there, including an altar of sorts to his father—a firefighter who died in the line of duty—he’d built back in the trees surrounding the small pond, and the decomposed remains unearthed from the fertile soil filled with firefly cocoons. The working theory was that they belonged to Moore’s stepmother, who’d married his father after his mother’s death, when he was a child. While the results of DNA analysis were still pending, the pictures of her they were able to find showed a woman of the same approximate height and bone structure, natural red hair, and a string of Japanese characters tattooed above her left breast. It took a matter of minutes to translate the word “Firefly,” but the implications would forever be the subject of speculation. As would his reasons for killing Carol and Raymond Waldon—his longtime friend and employer—who could easily have stumbled upon a picture and an insect in the glove compartment or a fire entry suit in the trunk of the company-leased vehicle and innocently enough asked why they were there.

The trophies in the case, however, were self-explanatory. There were more than fifty pictures, dating back to the early-nineties, pinned to a giant sheet of corkboard behind the glass. Pictures of red-haired women from all across the country. Pictures taken from a distance and enlarged so that their faces were clearly visible as they struck a specific pose, one in which they were photographed looking back over their left shoulders at the camera.

And pinned in the center of each one was a firefly.

There was no doubt that the DNA collected from the microscopic bits of human tissue excised from the sharp tips of their feet would match that of the victims whose mouths they had been inside, even if it was impossible to compare them to the lacerations.

No one even thought to look for the cuts in the back of Moore’s throat, however. Nor did they compare the crescent-shaped wounds on the backs of her fingers to his teeth. They hadn’t thought twice about the non-functioning flashlight Behrent had commandeered from her partner or connected it to the melted batteries fused to the concrete. They’d even kept it safe for her in the ER with the rest of her belongings. By the time she transferred its lone contents—the firefly she’d crawled to the habitat to collect, even as she burned—into a jar, it was barely still alive.

Now, its abdomen glowed fluorescent green as it repeatedly tested its confines.

While darkness descended, Behrent thought about two young redheaded girls and contemplated what made the lantern of the firefly in the jar glow.

When she finally stood, it was with tears in her eyes. She set the jar on the barbecue grill, lit the charcoal, and watched the flames lick the glass before engulfing it. The firefly darted from one side to the other, faster and faster, until the jar turned black and she could see it no more.

She watched until the glass shattered and the flames chased the smoke high into the air, where glowing embers danced like fireflies.

The End

He Caught Things

By

Colin Leonard

When I picked up my uncle from the hospital, I almost didn’t recognise him. He had always been skinny, a weathered wiriness gained from a life working on the farm. Now, there was something else within that scrawniness; a skeleton of frailty, and a worry in his walk of what that frailty might mean. He tottered out through the sliding doors and pulled a sour face at the sunlight. I should have gone in for him, I suppose. They probably wanted to tell someone what pills he needed to take, if there was a follow-up appointment he had to attend, but I didn’t want to get involved like that. I just wanted to drive the miserable old prick home and get my mother off my case.

I got out of the car and waved over at him. I was parked in an ambulance bay. I wasn’t wasting money on parking charges for him.

“Hey, Uncle Philly.”

He stared straight at me and didn’t move.

“Philly,” I yelled.

He wrinkled his nose and grumbled over to me.

“You’re not the right one. It’s Ellen I asked for.”

“I am Ellen.”

“Not you. Your sister. If I thought it was you, I would have just called a taxi.”

“That’s fine by me,” I said but he was already bothering the door handle. I got back in the car and opened it for him. He smelled of hospital soap and gowns, but his underlying scent of animals and manure hadn’t been washed away.

“Suppose it’ll have to be you then,” he moaned.

I pulled out as an arriving ambulance flashed its impatience at me and we hit the road out of town.

“So, what’s wrong with you?” I asked. “My mother said you collapsed or something.”

“Old. Just old, that’s all.” He rubbed his stubbly chin. “Ellen,” he mused. “I get confused with all the names”.

“There’s only two of us.”

“Patricia. Patricia is the one I want. She’s the vet, yeah?”

“Yeah, Patricia is the good one.”

“Can you call her for me? I need her to come out to the farm.”

“Nope,” I said.

“What do you mean ‘nope’? Why not?”

“Patricia doesn’t live here anymore. She emigrated three years ago. She visited you to say goodbye. Is your mind going as well as your body?”

He coughed in response. A phlegmy rattle that left a snot and a sneer on his face when it had finished.

“I know about you,” he said. “I know what you did.”

“Yeah? Good for you,” I said. “You can’t remember my name, but you remember that.”

I assumed he was referring to the trouble I’d gotten into last year. I didn’t really give a shit who knew about it. In certain circles it could be passed off as heroic. It still got me a day in court, a fine I hadn’t finished paying off and the shame of my mother. I didn’t need this smelly old bachelor thinking he was better than me too.

“Animals are made for killing,” he said. “Made for eating and hunting, doesn’t matter what you young ones think with your crazy terrorist ideas. Men have to make money out of them. We got jobs to do.”

I ignored him and swung the car down the secondary road that led to the farm. A couple of new houses had sprouted up on this road recently. I could remember when we were kids, coming out to visit our grandparents here. Back then, there had been only two other houses along this road, apart from the farmhouse my mother and Philly had grown up in. I pulled up to the gate. The farmhouse appeared tiny now in relation to its new neighbours. I dreaded to think of the state of its insides under my uncle’s neglect.

“Your sister understands about animals. Dunno why you’d do such a stupid thing. Did you think you were helping them?”

I don’t think, looking back, that I did what I did because of animal rights or because I cared for them. I was going through a funny time, floating along after a string of failures—college, relationships—I was drinking too much and I hated that job.

“Do you always do stupid things?”

Early mornings, stinking cages. I hated the chickens as much as the employers, stupid dumb birds. I should have just quit and gotten a job in a coffee shop or a bar but that probably wouldn’t have turned out any better.

“Did your sister get all the brains or are you at least a bit capable?”

You could say I fell in with a dangerous crowd, but I was going in a bad direction anyway all by myself. The animal rights angle was only an excuse.

“I need to know if you can be trusted at all?”

“What are you rabbiting on about, Uncle Philly? Come on, get out of the car. I’ve dropped you home. I’ve done my bit.”

He opened the car door but not to get out, just to spit on the ground.

“I need to show you something. I was hoping it’d be your sister, but it looks like I have no choice. What I have to show you is a secret. You come in here as family, ok. Open the gate there and drive in.”

There was a time when Philly wasn’t quite such a cantankerous old creature, not to myself and Patricia at least. He used to let us tag along as kids if he was working around the farm. He’d make it seem like an adventure. It was from the farm that Patricia and I developed our interest in animals.

“What do you need to show me?”

“If I could tell you, then I wouldn’t need to show you.”

I had a sinking feeling that it was going to be some heartbreaking evidence of his inability to take care of himself. I had a sense that I was going to be calling my mother to say that he shouldn’t be left living on his own.

“Open the gate yourself,” I told him. “You’re not dying just yet, are you?”

He manoeuvred his bony frame out of the car. I saw a shake in his wrist as he held the door.

“Not yet, but I won’t be around forever. That’s why I have to show you. Don’t go driving off on me while I get the gate. Alright?”

I didn’t. I drove the car into the yard, avoiding the crumbly holes that pockmarked the concrete. A washing line was strung between the house and one of the outbuildings. A shirt, two vests and a pair of trousers hung from it like defeated flags. Uncle Philly fiddled around in his pockets and drew out the house keys.

“Is it inside?” I asked.

“No. I just need my boots.”

In the hallway he removed his battered brown shoes and stuck his feet into a pair of heavy-duty wellingtons.

A pheasant hung from a hook at the top of the wall, rich green neck on it, red mask around its tiny dead eyes. Beside that was a bundle of brown fur strung up by its feet. A few flies were partying round the rabbit’s head. The hallway stank. Philly liked hunting.

“That’s rotten,” I said. “How long have they been there?”

“I’ll get to them afterwards. I have to show you the thing.”

“I don’t have boots though,” I said.

He didn’t answer, just took a stick from the corner of the hallway and led the way round the back to the old cowsheds. The ground was sloppy with muck, so I tried to keep to the edges where wild grass crept up the walls of the sheds. The whole place looked smaller than it used to but I knew my memory was comparing it to how it seemed when I was a child. We used to ramble around back here, examining every miniscule patch of wildlife and growth. Puddles were lakes, nettle patches were forbidden forests, insects were tiny, mythical monsters. The stonework of the milking sheds used to be as solid as an ancient fortress. Now it was decrepit and shying into the hungry weeds.

Philly was walking so slowly I nearly expected him to stop and crumple into a lifeless heap. My mother would be left this place if he was to die. She’d probably sell it, that would be the sensible thing to do. There’d be some money out of that for Patricia and myself, for sure. The few remaining cattle were grazing in the field nearest to us. One of them raised his slow head to wonder who this visitor was, this girl whose past self ran through the precursors to the grasses he munched on. Philly didn’t milk anymore, he sold them for beef. My mother was sentimental though. Would she want to get rid of the family farm, as meagre and ramshackle as it was? She wouldn’t need to sell it straight away. Maybe if I thought of a venture, some use for the land. It didn’t have to be cattle. I could think of something, and I’d hardly have to pay rent to my own mother.

“What is it you need to show me, Uncle Philly?”

When he turned around, I understood that it was apprehension rather than feebleness that had slowed him to a stop. His fingers worried away on the top of his stick. He was having trouble taking breaths in and letting words out.

“Now listen, whatever foolishness you’ve done in the past, this is serious. You have to keep it secret. I’m your mother’s brother, remember that. I got a scare, having that turn. I’m not going to be around forever, I know that. Wouldn’t want to be around forever anyway. But when I drop dead, what then? Or what if I get too sick to be able to cope with it?”

“It might be something I’d be interested in. I have a lot of memories of the farm, watching you and my grandad with the cattle, the hay in the summer.”

“Huh? What are you dribbling on about? Interested in it? I haven’t shown it to you yet.” His jaw quivered, like he was chewing on this for a bit, trying to swallow a problem. “I hoped it’d be your sister. She’s the smart one, takes after your mother. Suppose it has to be you. At least you’re family.”

He pottered onwards, towards the end shed, the smallest one. It was padlocked. He held up a key with yellow tape wrapped around its head. I shuffled up behind him, while he unlocked it and reached his hand inside for the light switch.

A bare bulb fizzed to life. They didn’t use this shed very often. It was too small to store much, no room for milking. I recalled them using it once to keep a sick calf in. We were here when the vet visited. Patricia had hovered by the man’s elbow for the entire time. I remember as well, on a morning so early that there was no sight of the sun, coming here to see a cow giving birth. Its bellows were low and pained but there was a beauty in the air that belied the noise, a new life helped out steaming onto the warm straw while me and my sister peered in from the frost outside, wide eyes swallowing the wonder of it all.

The thing inside there now made no noise, but I was even more stunned than I was back then. It lay on its back on a raised stone slab, some scraps of hay and ragged blankets under its back. There were two metal clasps set into the concrete. A chain from one was attached to its arms and another to its legs.

“What? What is it?” I whispered.

It was alive, that was for sure, but I had never seen or heard of an animal like it. It was the length of a tall man but it couldn’t be a human, couldn’t ever have been a human. What came to my mind first was the thought of a hare but that made me fear I had entered some psychedelic nightmare and shrunk to a tenth of my size. It was so long but its shape definitely resembled that of a hare, stretched out and shorn of its fur. Its face was wild and big-eyed, no lashes, all nose. Its ears were on the top of its head but short, as if they had been stunted in their growth. It was horribly thin with glossy, sore looking skin.

“Is it real?” I said.

“I caught it when I was hunting,” said my uncle.

“What is it?”

The creature raised its head slightly in response to our voices. The chains gave about a half metre freedom to each limb. It rubbed one of its legs against the other. Philly poked it in the side with his stick. There was a weird taste in my mouth, like I had licked a battery. I shuddered. Everything in this shed was wrong.

“I don’t know what it is. If I knew what it was then I’d know what to do with it. If I knew that then I would have done it already.”

“How long has it been here, Uncle Philly?”

Dirty water pooled in parts of the uneven floor. There was an injury to the creature’s arm. A bad injury. The paw was mostly gone, the stump was splayed and lumpy. Philly wiped a drip of spittle from his mouth.

“I caught it twelve years and forty-seven days ago.”

My stomach swirled.

“Why? Why have you got it chained up here?”

His voice turned low. I had to get close to hear him.

“There was a big flash low in the sky that day, I can still remember that. I know that had something to do with it. I was ready to go hunting down the fields when I saw it. It’s my land. I can do whatever I like on it. I can hunt whatever I want. It wasn’t a fiery flash, more metallic and blinding if you know what I mean. Thought maybe the sun had split open, I don’t know, just for a second. I went on down the back field near where the cluster of bracken grows up on the mound. That’s where I thought it had come from. There was a movement up behind the bracken and I could see a big shape through all the yellow and thorns. Come out of there, I said, but I said it to myself, under my breath, like. I had a feeling that whatever was behind there wouldn’t understand English. I had the rifle pointed and ready when it came into view.”

“Did you shoot it?”

“I shot its hand. It was holding something in it. It collapsed to the ground, passed out or whatever. I was able to drag it back here and tie it up. I went back to see what it had been holding.”

“What was it?”

“I found a hare or what was left of it. It was like it had been hollowed out. Wasn’t much of it left apart from the pelt.”

The creature squirmed and its mouth opened. A croaky sound hung in the stink of the air.

“It’s trying to speak. Oh, my God.”

My uncle sidled over to me.

“You can hear a word too? I wasn’t sure. I thought I might have been going funny in the head. I used to talk to it for years. One year, it began to talk back.”

“Hello,” I said out loud. “Can you understand us? What are you?”

“It can’t say much,” said Philly. “It only has a few words.”

It croaked again. It might have been saying the word ‘help’.

“So that’s it. Now you know. I’m worried what’s going to happen if I get sick again. Should I just kill it and be done with it? I can’t let it loose, I don’t trust it.”

“What do you mean? You have to tell someone. You have to call the police or the...the government, or a zoo, even?”

He poked it again with his stick and it croaked what sounded like ‘stop’.

“I can’t do that. Are you mad? What if the government already knows it exists? What if they want to keep me quiet? I’m not stupid, oh no. I know what happens to people who find out things they’re not supposed to know. They’d silence me.” He drew his finger across his wrinkly throat.

“You’re the mad one. You have to report this. It’s bigger than you or me or anything. And what you’re doing to it is cruel. I mean, what have you been feeding it? How does it go to the toilet?”

“It doesn’t eat.”

“Shut up.”

“It doesn’t shit either. I don’t think it sleeps. I’ve stayed up with it through the night. I’ve tried to examine it and see what’s what, but I don’t trust it. I don’t want to get too close.”

“You’re starving it.”

“It doesn’t eat, I told you. Ah, you’re useless to me. I knew you’d be no good. Just leave, will you? I’ll sort it out myself.”

He pushed me towards the door, but I sidestepped around him to stay inside.

“You needn’t think about telling anyone either,” he went on. “I’ll have gotten rid of the remains. I’m not stupid.”

He hobbled out of the shed, muttering to himself. The bulb swayed on its cord when he swung the door back behind him, sweeping light across the walls. I knew he would be back soon with his rifle. The creature groaned. I inched over to it, transfixed by its huge lashless eyes. The mouth twitched again and emitted the same hoarse syllable as before. Help.

I didn’t want to get in a physical fight with an elderly gun-toting relative. I’d have to do something before he got back. I rushed to one of the other sheds, the one opposite, one that years ago used to have tools and implements left in it. There were two rusted heads of shovels without their handles. A spade and a fork canoodled together in the corner. A yard brush held heavy muck in its bristles. At the back, behind a pile of old woven sacks, was a fencepost driver. I doubted it would do the job but grabbed it by the handle. When I pulled it out, I saw what I really needed lying on the filthy ground. A sledgehammer. I dragged it into the other shed, the fat head scraping on the ground behind me. I hefted it up high and smashed it down where the clasp that held the leg chains was set into the concrete. The creature flinched and quivered. Chips of stone flew up. I battered it again and again and the clasp bent and broke. Then I went at the one that was above its arms. This one was rusted badly and it crumbled on the first blow. I stood back, holding the hammer up in front of me and made a hissing noise at the creature, exhorting it to get up and get out. It turned over on its long body, bending limbs as if for the first time, examining the joints of its knees and elbows.

“Shoo, get out,” I banged the hammer on the ground.

The thing stood up. Even hunched with confusion and fear, it was so tall it had to duck under the door frame. I followed it out, straining to hold the sledgehammer up in front of me for protection.

“Just go. Just get away.”

It loped away with a stuttering gait, as if unsure whether it was made to move on two legs or on all fours. It had just disappeared round the wall of the shed when Uncle Philly appeared, slow and mournful, holding his rifle like it was a body to be placed on a funeral pyre.

“Why have you got my hammer?” he yelled. For a terrible moment I thought the rifle was going to turn on me.

“I set it free,” I said. “I’ll call someone and say I saw it loose out here. I won’t mention you at all. So that’s your problem sorted, isn’t it? That’s what you wanted me or my sister to do.”

He shoved past me to check inside the shed.

“You stupid girl. You don’t know if it’s dangerous or not. It could come back here in the night.”

He hugged the gun to his chest and the tremble of worry in his face said that he might never sleep a settled night again.

“It was suffering,” I said.

He knelt down to inspect the damage I had done to the metal clasps and I heard a clink of chains behind me. The movement of the creature seemed more fluid now, dipping beneath the frame of the door. The shadow it cast was thin and flickery. I panicked back against the clammy stone wall but it glided past me. Philly looked up. His gummy mouth flapped open. He couldn’t turn the gun on it before it was towering over him.

Its stump was glowing. That deformed lump, shot to bits all those years ago, pulsed at the end of its slender arm. The creature stuck the splayed paw onto the top of Uncle Philly’s head and the glow spread bright and hot through its whole body. Philly shuddered and squealed, his trousers soaking with piss and blood. The stink was like an old, rotten animal carcass had been cracked open. The veins in his face and neck bulged, throbbing red through scalded skin. The lightbulb exploded but the shed was illuminated by the light coming off the creature. It squirmed and jerked like it was in the throes of ecstasy, its tattered skin luminescent. Then the glow spread through my uncle’s body. It drained his form from the inside out, all pulled up through the top of his skull, leaving him hollow and empty. I couldn’t watch it anymore, but I couldn’t shut my eyes and I couldn’t turn away.

So, I stepped forward and swung the hammer.

The blow separated the two bodies from each other and they both stopped glowing. Philly flopped onto the ground like a failed parachute. I could see that the creature had changed. Its face had become more human, the snout shrunk to a nose, the ears reduced and moved down its skull. Its torso was still weird and thin but the limbs were in a different proportion to it than before. With one hand I dragged what remained of my uncle’s body out the door—he was so light—slammed it shut and snapped the padlock closed.

I slumped to the ground, leaning my back against the door and waited for my legs to stop shaking. The judge from my court case last year visited my mind, his condescending sigh, his words:

“You may think that you were doing ‘the right thing’ but you didn’t save those birds. You didn’t make any difference. They all still died and you caused people to get hurt into the bargain.”

After a while, my pulse calmed. My muscles started to feel like they could work again but I stayed sitting on the filthy ground, letting the rich country air fill my lungs, and laid my options out. Uncle Philly was dead but all that was left of his body was this floppy skin-bag, this pelt. How could I explain what had happened to him without keeping the thing locked up until the authorities got here? That was the only chance I had of not being blamed for his death, the only chance of getting a share of this place, of a new life. Philly had just been paranoid about revealing his secret. If I stuck to the truth, with proof, then surely it would all work out alright for me.

But that would make me as bad as him. It wasn’t that creature’s fault that my uncle had maimed it, imprisoned and starved it, stolen its daylight and its freedom. Philly deserved his fate for what he had done. It wasn’t its fault.

My heartbeat quickened again and, with my head pressed against the rough, paint-flecked wood of the door, I heard a noise from inside. The noise of a living thing rising from the floor, the sound of scraping against the door. Philly’s corpse felt soft and boneless under his clothes. His shirt and trousers bore scorch marks though they weren’t as fierce as the burns on what skin I could see. I found the key with the yellow tape in his soiled pocket and I stood up, twisted it in the padlock and got ready to run.

The End

Devlin’s Manse

By

Daemon Manx

Profound sorrow is all-encompassing; it has a way of permeating and taking on a life of its own. It thrives, like a mold, in the darkest corners of the heart. Tragedy has a memory that cannot be purged by time. Although it can be displaced for a moment, it is never entirely forgotten. There is always a residue that lingers, like a bloodstain on the carpet, or the scar left from a wound. This is not only true with people, but for houses as well. The din of sadness can never be completely hushed in dwellings that have witnessed such atrocities. Although the presence of children can pacify the pain, for a moment … there is always a residue.

Devlin’s Manse remained vacant for a lifetime. It’s dark walnut floorboards, ornate twelve-foot ceilings, and elaborate cherry wood moldings spoke of a pride in architecture long since forgotten. The three-story Victorian design, popular during the 19th century, stood sentinel over 1500 acres of real estate. Rice and tobacco were the till of the land around the time, James “Old Buck” Buchannan was taking office. It had been decades since voices graced the halls of Devlin’s Manse. Longer still since the resonating echo of children’s laughter had danced upon its walls. But now … something was stirring.

“Try to find me, James,” the voice of a young girl drifted from behind a second-floor closet door. She pressed her face against the cracked opening to scan the room. The dresser, the chest of drawers, and the large four-poster bed remained undisturbed. Mary listened as the sound of approaching foot falls drew near, she retreated to the back of her hide-a-way, nestled between the old coats.

“Mary, where are you?” The boy rushed into the room, dropped to the floor, and pushed the duvet aside to search beneath the bed. An army of dust bunnies was all he found. Listening, he rose to his feet and noticed the door to the closet. He prepared to make his way toward it when he was alerted by the muted sound of stifled laughter. It crept from the confines of the closet and greeted him where he stood. Quietly, he tiptoed across the floor and placed his hand on the knob. He held his breath and yanked the door open in one fluid motion.

“I’ve got you!” he shouted.

Mary screamed, but the look on her face was pure delight. “Oh James, you cheated!”

“No,” he said. “I heard you laughing all the way downstairs.”

Mary darted from the closet and took a running leap onto the bed; the thick comforter and array of goose-down pillows nearly swallowed the girl’s small frame. “Don’t you just love our new house?”

James followed her lead and dove headfirst after her. Rising to his feet he proceeded to jump in place. The tired old springs launched him higher with each pounce, but never came close to propelling the boy to his target of the ceiling. “What do you think?” he replied with a grin.

Mary crinkled her brow. “I think you shouldn’t have your dirty shoes on the bed. That’s what I think.”

James took one final leap at the ceiling then fell onto his back. “Yes, Mom!” He let out a dramatic exhale.

Smiling, Mary leaned over and pecked him on the cheek. “You’re it!” she cried, then leapt from the bed and darted out of the room.

“Ewww!” James wiped the kiss from his cheek. “Disgusting.” He rolled from his position and took off in pursuit after her.

The room, silent once again, held onto the image like a photograph. The imprint on the bedspread remained for a moment … if only for a moment. Then the open closet door let out a tired creak, and slowly swung shut.

***

The lush front lawn of Devlin’s Manse sprawled for acres and reflected the care and time the new residents had invested in taking back the property from the grips of neglect. Magnolia trees adorned the grounds with a wooden swing suspended from the lower branch of one of the specimens. James pushed Mary while dappled sunlight played across her face as she arced back and forth.

“Higher,” she called to the boy, who was more than happy to oblige and answered with another hearty push.

The scent of sweet magnolia blossoms filled the air. Although the trees were in full bloom, many discarded flowers littered the lawn, no doubt recent victims of the strong coastal southern breeze. Before taking flight on the swing, Mary had chosen the perfect bloom and tucked it delicately behind her right ear. The white pink of its petals danced like a flickering ember against the trailing flame of her long red hair.

“Higher, James. Higher,” she called again.

“Aren’t you tired yet?” he asked.

“No, but it’s your turn. We can switch.”

James allowed the swing’s momentum to slow and then come to a halt. He grabbed the rope and helped Mary off.

“Hop on,” she offered.

“That’s all right,” he replied, then took a seat in the shade with his back against the large tree. Mary sat next to him and lifted another blossom from the ground.

“Isn’t it just perfect?” she asked, looking up at the house.

The once forgotten Manse stood before them in all its glory, revealing not even a glimmer of the years of disregard. The peeling paint, the rotting wood, all given a reprieve. Once broken windowpanes now refracted the noonday sun and suggested that the estate was healthy once again … or perhaps, only in remission.

Mary twirled the flower within her fingertips and allowed her gaze to follow the large pillars that supported the second-floor balcony, and then up the front of the dwelling to the smaller third story windows. It happened in a flurry, one of the curtains was momentarily pushed aside and then returned to its position.

“Did you see that?” She jumped to her feet, dropping the blossom.

“See what?’” James looked up puzzled.

“At the window upstairs!” she shouted. “There’s someone up there. I saw it!”

“What are you talking about?” he asked. “There’s no one up there.”

“No, James. I saw it.” Her voice rose to a shrill. “The curtain moved. I saw it!”

“Well,” he said, rising to his feet. “Let’s go see then. But I’m telling you. There’s nobody up there.” James made his way across the lawn toward the house and Mary reluctantly followed.

***

The stairwell to the third floor was perhaps the one place overlooked during the renovations. The wide walnut risers cantered slightly to the left as if the house had settled askew. The faded yellow wallpaper had peeled from the walls and given way to large cracks. In several places the plaster itself had fallen off, leaving only exposed lathe behind. The light switch did nothing when James tried it; the cobweb encrusted sconces remained dark. Minimal light escaped from the crack beneath the bedroom door at the top of the stairs, bathing the area in near twilight.

“I’m scared,” Mary said as she crouched behind James.

“Don’t be afraid. It’s nothing,” he reassured her. “You trust me, don’t you?”

“You know I do. But I’m telling you, I saw something.”

The stairs creaked and groaned as if they had not borne weight in far too long. Step by step, they made their way to the top, stealthily inching their way to the threshold. When he was within reach, James extended his hand to grasp the knob and then hesitated.

For a moment, the idea that Mary had seen something struck him as possible, and then he was sure of it. Something was lying in wait for them on the other side of the door, something that meant them grave harm.

He laughed at his foolishness, then grabbed the knob.

An icy cold shock seized his hand and froze it from fingertips to elbow. He released his grasp at once and tucked his hand in the crook of his arm.

“What’s wrong?” Mary gasped.

“It’s … it’s cold.” Confusion washed across his face.

He removed his hand from under his arm and examined it for a moment, it was fine. He reached for the knob again, but Mary pulled him back, nearly sending them both tumbling down the stairs.

“It’s okay,” he said. “It just surprised me, that’s all.”

His voice wavered as if he wasn’t convinced, but Mary allowed him to continue and James touched the knob with his fingertips, then took it in his grip.

“Mary, the knob is freezing … like ice.” He tried to turn it to the right and then left but it would not so much as jiggle in the jamb. He let go and turned to her. “You feel it.”

“I don’t want to. Let’s go, James. I’m scared.”

“It’s all right. It’s just c—” But Mary had already descended the stairs and entered the hallway.

He tried the knob again, but it wouldn’t budge. He pressed his shoulder against the door to find it just as cold as the knob. After a moment of futility, he gave up the attempt, and descended the stairs after her.

***

Evening floated in as if on gossamer wings. The sweet fragrance of Jasmine and Magnolia filled the air as the last streaks of violet gave way to even deeper shades of indigo. Fireflies rehearsed their ritualistic dance of light, as a chorus of crickets provided the soundtrack. Mary and James sat on the front porch of Devlin’s Manse, soaking in the scents and sounds of summer.

“Are you mad at me?” she asked, her long nightgown hanging to her bare feet.

“Don’t be silly. Why would I be mad at you?”

“I got scared and left you,” she said, still shaken by the afternoon’s events. “What if you…” Her voice wavered on the verge of tears.

“Hey, nothing happened, silly. I told you it would be okay.” He reassured her. Although he wasn’t convinced it had been entirely ‘nothing,’ he attempted to sound brave.

“I saw something,” she repeated

“There’s probably a draft up there that blew the curtains. That’s why it’s cold.”

“James,” her voice nearly drowned by a cacophony of crickets. “It’s August.”

After an uncomfortable pause, he leaned against her shoulder to shoulder. “Hey, I don’t know, but I’m sure there’s a good reason,” he waited a moment, then added, “and I’m going to find out.”

“Let’s just leave it alone, I don’t want to get in trouble.”

His dark eyes looked into her green eyes as the first stars arrived in the August sky.

“We’re gonna be fine,” he replied.

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

“Okay, but I don’t want to go up there again.”

“You won’t have to.” He reached to grasp at a firefly that was too quick, and easily slipped through his fingers.

***

Morning sunlight, filtered through linen window treatments, cast the sitting room in a dusty mellow glow. Dapples of amber diamonds reflected off the large chandelier suspended in the center of the ceiling while Mary sat at a small table set for a tea party of three: herself, an oversized teddy bear, and her baby doll, who lay tucked within her arms. She was hardly aware of the far-off voices of the grownups as she focused her attention on her baby, doting on his every need.

“That’s my boy,” she said. “I love you, Christopher.”

Mary pretended to feed the little one his morning bottle while teddy sat watch with a dainty cup of faux tea set on the table in front of him. The distant sound of hammers and saws lofted in from somewhere in the house but were unnoticed as Mary allowed herself to be as lost as only a child could be, forever frozen in playtime. Thoughts of yesterday’s fright had been set aside as if they had never happened. Mary raised the doll to her shoulder and pretended to burp him.

“Momma loves you so much,” she beamed, a smile of pure joy spread across her face.

***

While Mary was submerged in teatime, James focused on a mission of his own. The basement of Devlin’s Manse was dank and musty; a combination of scents filled the air: pickled fruit and dried meat mixed with mold, decay, and the dust of a thousand years. In the furthest corner from the stairs where James stood, sat a stack of old tables and chairs, covered in filth. A clutch of wooden boxes occupied the opposite corner and appeared to wear an equal amount of time and grime. Neither of which were the focus of his mission; what James was after lay under the stairs. He lit the candle he had taken from the kitchen cupboard and navigated his way through the dark.

Tiny creatures scurried back into their holes, and large black spiders curiously watched their new visitor. James was oblivious to his audience and to the sounds of construction from above. He made his way to the alcove beneath the stairs and halted when his foot struck something big and heavy. He directed the candlelight onto the object he had stumbled upon and discovered a large chest. An ancient padlock adorned the front, holding the lid and the contents in place. He fumbled with it for a moment. It was a thick key-lock, caked in rust. On the very top of the chest set into the wood sat a rectangular piece of metal with an engraving on it. He wiped the dust away with his palm and revealed one word, the name ‘JED’ spelled out on the plaque. James tugged at the lock and wondered who Jed might be. He imagined one of the previous occupants who had left the chest behind. And despite his best effort he was unable to pry the lock open, which was fine, he had come to the basement in search of one key; now he would need to find two.

He raised the candle to the wall above the chest and slowly moved it to the right until the light revealed a masonry nail that had been driven into the wall. No key hung from the first nail, and he continued to search the darkness. There was no key to be found on the second nail he came across, or the third, and James’s heart fluttered quick within his chest. He had been sure he would find what he was looking for. They were down here. He thought.

Creeping shadows suffocated the candle’s reach like a wet blanket, sweat glistened on his brow despite the basement’s sudden chill, and gooseflesh broke out on his arms and the nape of his neck. James found it increasingly difficult to swallow, and anxiety quickly escalated into panic. A thought flashed in his head, please don’t let me find it. He was overcome by the agonizing feeling that locating the key would be a very bad thing. He held the candle closer to the wall and revealed the fourth nail as a foggy plume of breath escaped into the icy air.

He was relieved for a fleeting moment, then a soft rustle and the sensation of movement jarred him back. James had no idea if the noise had come from across the room or right behind him. His frozen heart entered his throat and stagnated. Unable to move a muscle, he listened, then he heard it … thump! It was followed by another, and then another.

James nearly screamed, then realized it was the thrum of his own pulse. Still, he waited, anticipating the repeat of the rustle, and half expecting something to seize him in the darkness. When neither happened, he wrestled the last vestige of his courage and extended the candle further into the dim. The umbra reluctantly retreated as the light fell across the stone, revealing the fifth and final nail. A single brass key reflected the flame like a lighthouse beacon. Death lies upon these rocks. Every nerve in the boy’s body screamed for him to leave, to forget the key and abandon his search. Whatever you do, don’t touch it. James stared at it, hypnotized by the dancing image of the candle on its shiny surface.

Last chance, boy; leave now while you still can. A voice that sounded exactly like his own, beckoned from somewhere in the dark. James let out a strangled cry, spun about on his heels and ran like a banshee up the old wooden staircase. Slamming the door behind him, he checked the lock and then made his way to the kitchen; he returned the candle to the cupboard and set off to find Mary. He made his way to the sitting room where he knew he would find her and tried his best to push all thoughts of the cold dark basement to the side. At least, that’s what he should have done. Unfortunately, it was too late for that, and James remained where he was, reached out his hand, and took hold of the key.

A sharpened spike of pain penetrated his head like an ice pick; a concentrated pressure behind his eyes caused them to water and blur. The internal sound of muted jackhammers filled his ears and made him sick. It must be the mold, he thought, then shoved the key in his front pocket and made his way to the stairs. The fresh air from the first floor greeted him and helped clear his head slightly. James closed the door behind him and forced the experience to the back of his mind; forgotten was the fear, the sensation, and the voice. Not only this, but also forgotten, was any thought about the chest.

***

“Rock a bye baby, on the treetop,” Mary sang to her doll. With just a hint of a tear in her eye, she pretended it was Christopher’s nap time as she rocked him to sleep.

“When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.” Her mind wandered to a vision of a time when she might rock her own child to sleep.

“When the bough breaks...” She held Christopher tighter, as James closed the basement door.

“The cradle will fall.” Mary snuggled the doll and inhaled deeply, reminded of a smell that could only be baby, the scent of the skin, the warmth of the body.

“And down will come baby…” The tears welled up in the corners of her eyes.

“Cradle and all.” The crystals in the chandelier began to chime as they lightly started to sway and strike against one another. The China cups and saucers shimmied across the table and teddy was thrown from his chair. His lifeless eyes gazed up accusingly at Mary. She drew the doll closer and shot to her feet, tipping her own chair in the process. Then the house started to shake on its foundation; the thunderous crash of heaving timbers sounded as if the place were being ripped apart. Suddenly, the China was thrown from the table and smashed against the wall. Tiny shards rained down on Mary and caught in her hair.

She screamed and pulled the baby in with a life-or-death grip. A moment later James exploded into the room, rushed to her side, and took her in his arms. The tremors continued for a moment longer, then subsided. The chandelier and its many crystals continued to pendulum, emitting a sickly-sweet calliope reverberance.

“Shh, it’s alright,” he tried to comfort her. “It’s over now.”

The room slowly settled, and the uproar was replaced by silence. Fine plaster particles, drifted in the air and gave the sunlight a faded feel. Mary continued to sob, James remained holding her, and Teddy closed his reproachful eyes.

***

The seismic anomaly that interrupted Mary’s lullaby had been isolated to Devlin’s Manse. The stairwell leading to the third floor had taken the brunt of the damage. The already cantered stairs now listed hard to port. Large fractures were evident in all the walls, and chunks of plaster littered the landings. The ceiling bowed and threatened to give way at any moment. The door to the bedroom was buckled in its frame; frigid air escaped from beneath the threshold and through the keyhole. But, this too, was forgotten.

***

Childhood solely has the unique and uncanny ability to distort time. The clock holds no dominion over this phase of life. It is childhood that is the master, and in command of either passing the summer in the blink of an eye or allowing a cold rainy morning to last an eternity. It freezes or it burns, it stands still, or it flies by, there is no in-between for children … In the end, however it is perceived, it is only missed when it is gone-like childhood itself.

***

The morning sun gave way to afternoon showers. Low lying storm clouds rolled in off the Atlantic coast and blanketed the state. Periods of thunder and lightning sporadically occupied most of the day. It blocked out much of the ambient noise within the house and the constant drumming of the overflowing gutters was both disturbing and hypnotic.

Devlin’s Manse had grown dark and cold. A chill had invaded like a predator and now had a strong foothold on the estate. Mary lay in bed with a thick blanket wrapped around both her and the doll.

The pain in James’s head had returned with a vengeance, the ache in his temples and behind his eyes had intensified to a throbbing roar; he found it impossible to think. The constant throng of the rain made him nauseous. He had just closed his eyes and started to drift off from his position in the large armchair, when he smelled it.

At first, the faint aroma of burning wood; the distant smokey taste of hickory touched his senses, but he barely registered it. Then, it slowly increased and intensified; it crept up and overwhelmed him.

James coughed from somewhere in the fog of dreamland as his lungs filled with choking black smoke. He finally opened his eyes and was blinded. The room was a dark grey cloud. The house was on fire. Raking in a deep lungful of toxic smoke, he violently retched and fell to the floor. He struggled and clawed his way to the bed where Mary lay.

“Mary,” he croaked, his voice barely registered a whisper.

Sirens assaulted his ears as hammers sounded at his temples. Outside, the rain beat relentlessly against the windows. From somewhere came the high-pitched sound of crying.

Mary’s crying. He thought for a moment. But that wasn’t exactly right. The crying wasn’t coming from in the room, it was coming from inside his head. It wasn’t Mary’s voice either, it was the tormented wail of an infant.

I’m dying. He thought, as darkness overtook him. His final reflection, I have to save the baby.

***

The world was eclipsed; it floated on a shroud of shadows, deafeningly silent, glaringly dark, and sweetly bitter. It lumbered along on a dead slack tide, then was violently wrenched back by the suffocating rip. All the while, the rain continued, and Devlin’s Manse retreated like a sleeping viper.

First, there was a push, then a tug, and then a shake.

“James, wake up.”

James woke to find himself face down on the floor with Mary standing over him. “Wake up, wake up!” she yelled and shook him even harder.

“James, WAKE UP!”

Soupy disorientation impeded his perception. He struggled to hold onto the memory, aware for a moment of sound, and then movement; he recalled the smell of smoke, and then remembered the…

“fire” the words were barely audible.

He stirred, opened his eyes, then rolled onto his side and coughed uncontrollably.

“James.” Mary tapped him on the back.

After a long while the fit passed, and the fog in his head dissipated. Alarmed and confused, he looked around and attempted to pinpoint the source of the blaze, only to find the room clear and cold. The marching band between his ears continued its assault, assisted by the oppressive sound of the rain, and the taste of burnt wood filled his mouth and sinuses.

“Fire,” he gasped.

“James, what happened? Are you alright?” Mary asked, helping him to sit up.

He scanned the room again and found no sign of smoke, although he could smell it on his clothes and taste it on his lips. “The house was on fire,” he said. “The room was filled with smoke.”

“You must have been dreaming. I was right here, there wasn’t any fire. Did you fall or something? You don’t look good at all.”

“I don’t feel so well,” he said, rubbing his head. “It was so real. The Baby!”

They both turned their heads to the doll in Mary’s arms.

“You better lay down. I’ll make you some tea.” She helped him to his feet and walked him over to the bed.

“Mary, there was smoke everywhere. I can still taste it and I heard a baby,” he said as she touched her hand to his forehead.

“James, you’re ice cold.” She helped him onto his back and looked at the doll. “Let’s go make some tea, Christopher,” she cooed, then exited the room. Behind her, the cohesion of reality sloughed away, and the silent house began to stir, once again.

James moaned faintly as Mary entered the hallway. The lucidity of the vision was overpowering, and he succumbed to it completely. He dreamt of darkened tunnels and torches, catacombs and chains, ancient secrets, and pain. There was a baby; there was none. He dreamt of hidden doors, unthinkable acts of cruelty, of a world where all was red and bitter. He dreamt of secret rooms, bookshelves, stairways, old wooden chests, and keys … above all else, he dreamt of keys.

For a moment he was struck by the gnawing sensation that something grave had been overlooked, then in a flash, it was gone. He stirred as the thick grey smoke sifted through the cracks in the floor, seeped out of the lower portion of the walls, and covered the floor in a blanket like a London fog. It surrounded the bed as if he were lying on a cloud. In his dreams, James pushed the large object to the side and ascended the staircase. Somewhere close, was the key.

***

Mary opened the door and made her way to the back of the large area in search of the tea. The aroma of various spices filled the stocked pantry. Sacks of rice, flour, sorghum, and pecans lined the floor. Jars of pickled beets, beans, peaches, squash, and rhubarb filled many of the shelves; others were lined with honey, preserves, tea, coffee, and spices. Mary reached for the tea then jumped back when something small scampered across her foot. She looked down to see the field mouse as it disappeared behind one of the sacks. She laughed and regained herself.

At first, she felt more than heard, the low distant rumble of a faraway train in her belly and on her skin. Then the jars on the shelf began to shake. Suddenly, the pantry door slammed shut, and Mary was plunged into an abyss of darkness. She pulled Christopher close, and the room came to life. Glass jars exploded onto the floor as they lost their purchase upon the shelves. Grain bags erupted their contents into the air. Mary was showered by the debris and pelted by shards of broken glass.

“No!” she screamed and shielded the baby.

The world was thrown sideways then turned upside down. The combination of darkness and din dissolved the last of her resolve.

“Stop it!” Tears ran down her cheeks and fell to the floor.

Every deafening crash ripped through Mary like a seizure.

Then, the pantry door swung outward, and it was over. She slowly opened her eyes to find no debris and no sign of disaster. The pantry was empty, the shelves were covered in a thick layer of dust. Spiders stared silently back at her, and the skeletal remains of several rodents littered the floor. Mary shook uncontrollably; the room was as cold as an icebox, and she could see her breath. Outside, the rain was ceaseless … inside, the memories came flooding back.

Mary stepped out of the pantry into the kitchen to find the cabinets gone. The table and chairs had vanished; the pots, the pans, China, and flatware, as if they never were. The room looked like it had aged a hundred years. The flooring was missing in spots, pieces of the walls had fallen and much of the ceiling had given way.

Her cries hitched in her chest and Mary began to hyperventilate. Every breath shuddered in her lungs as insanity took control. Her tears fell like the rain.

“C … Ch … Christoph … er … r.” She looked down to find his porcelain face had been replaced by bone, a small infant’s skull wrapped in a tattered moth-eaten blanket. Empty sockets stared blindly into nothingness, a skeletal grin frozen in time.

Mary screamed and the perimeter of her vision shifted from grey to black; she fell to the floor in the middle of the old, abandoned kitchen.

As if transported from another world, a table phased into existence. It was followed by a set of chairs that faded into view. The ceiling re-materialized, along with the walls, and then the floorboards. Cabinets suddenly hung in place; pots appeared on a wood-burning stove. Everything looked as it had once been. But somewhere in time ... a baby was crying.

***

During the near two centuries of its existence, Devlin’s Manse carried the burden of far too many secrets. For the greater part, it remained silent; however, some secrets were just too hard to stifle.

In 1827, Montgomery Devlin commissioned a team of architects to design an estate that would sit upon the family’s 2000 plus, Charleston acreage. After two years of scrutiny and careful revisions, construction began in the spring of ‘29. Tradesmen and laborers were hired for no longer than two months, at which point they were terminated and replaced by an entirely new crew. It was Devlin’s intention that no single worker would know all the secrets his estate would hold.

An elaborate tunnel system was constructed around the preexisting subterranean caverns. Dark passages, blasted out of the clay and bedrock, led from the main house throughout the property. Torches and lanterns illuminated the dark halls beneath the Manse.

The house itself was a 19th Century wonder of design. Walls that pivoted on fulcrum levers revealed hidden stairwells and secret rooms, virtually invisible to the naked eye. Faux floorboards gave way to trap doors, bookshelves could be moved to expose passageways, if one knew the exact pressure point.

Montgomery wasn’t exactly a southern gentleman. He was a dark, brooding, covetous man, with a flair for the macabre; however, he did have the capacity for love. He loved his nephew Edward, and he loved his privacy. And although there was never any evidence to support the accusations, it was suspected by many that Montgomery’s passions were dark beyond comprehension. During his time as owner of the Manse, the city of Charleston suffered a plague like no other.

Shortly after the final nail was driven into the estate, the children of the area began to disappear in scores. Boys and girls, snatched from their beds in the middle of the night, were never to be heard from again. On more than one occasion, toys and pieces of clothing had been found near the plantation, but the constable was unable to lay the blame on old Montgomery Devlin, the man was as slippery as a snake.

But the lack of evidence didn’t stop everyone, the servants who worked for Devlin had seen all they needed to reach their own verdict. The walls inside the Manse were not as thick as the bedrock tunnels that lay below. And as the first shots of the civil war were being fired at Ft. Sumter, Montgomery Devlin was dying his own agonizing death. He had been poisoned, presumably by one, if not all of the servants. He convulsed on his bed for two days and in the end, turned blue, and was no more.

He was mourned only by his nephew Edward, who was eleven in 1861, and Montgomery’s sole heir. Edward Devlin inherited the estate, all its responsibilities, as well as a mountain of debt. Fortunately, he didn’t inherit his uncle’s macabre propensity. Edward was a kind-hearted young boy, an even kinder young man, and proved to be a far savvier businessman than Montgomery ever was.

The war hit the South hard, and many of the plantations were unable to survive; however, great responsibility at an early age bred great adaptability in young Edward Devlin. As reconstruction began, he saw the potential that sharecroppers held, and he capitalized. He sold off parcels of the land piece by piece and converted the rice fields into a far more profitable crop, by planting pecan trees. He was able to overcome Montgomery’s vast debt and take the family name out of the red. Unfortunately, the stain of his uncle’s sins would never leave the Manse. A murky puissance would forever reside on the tainted grounds of the estate.

Devlin’s Manse proved to have no love for children. Edward married Charlotte in 1870, and they were soon expecting their first child. It was a difficult pregnancy, and the baby did not survive the full term. One year later, they were expecting again. Charlotte gave birth to Allison in November ‘73. In February, she was found dead in her crib. Edward and Charlotte were devastated, and convinced it was their fault. In a way it was, had Edward never been born a Devlin his daughter may have survived.

Reeling from Allison’s death, Charlotte withdrew, and Edward immersed himself in his duties on the plantation. By 1875, most of Montgomery’s secrets had been obscured and forgotten. The labyrinth was long abandoned, most of the passageways and rooms had not been used in over a decade. Charlotte did favor one hide-a-way though, the third-floor bedroom, whose staircase was secretly hidden behind a row of bookcases on the second-floor hallway. It was accessible by depressing an exact piece of molding at the baseboard, pulling the right side outward, and revealing the stairs to the third floor. Without knowledge of the staircase and the pressure point, the passage was undetectable. Charlotte spent most of her time in the hidden room, mourning Allison in quiet reflection.

Time slowly pacified the worst of the pain, and once again Charlotte was with child. She remained in bed on the third floor during the entire pregnancy, determined not to exert any undue stress on the baby; Edward doted on her every need. In 1879, Charlotte died in childbirth; a year later Edward died of a broken heart. Their newborn son would inherit the estate; the Manse, the land, the anguish, and the secrets ... it all belonged to Jed.

***

Lucidity slips, there is a bright blinding light, her vision momentarily seared out of focus. White-hot fades to dull yellow and she is looking at a summer sky with the sun shining on her face. There are people gathered nearby. She feels the presence of her family but cannot make them out until he lifts the veil.

It’s her wedding day. The front lawn of the estate has been set for the occasion. The guests are seated in white chairs and her parents occupy the very first row. She stands beneath a trellis decorated with roses and magnolia blossoms and thinks, I was happy, then leans in to be kissed, perception slips again.

She senses the feeling of being carried weightless, blissfully in motion. Images vanish, a bookcase, the stairs, a bedroom, the chimney.

For a moment she thinks, we have to wake up. Then, she is back on the front lawn, she is being kissed.

“I love you, Mary,” he says.

She looks into his eyes, “I love you, Jed.”

***

The roar inside her head was deafening; hammers, pickaxes, and myriad implements of torture wicked away at her equilibrium, as the odor of decay filled her sinuses. Slowly, the shroud of unconsciousness receded and gave way to the relentless pounding of the rain.

Mary opened her eyes and attempted to focus on her surroundings. The desiccated corpse of a spider lay inches from her face, long dead, and sprawled turtle-like on its back. Then she remembered falling, she had been in the kitchen. She lifted her head and gasped; the room looked ancient and forgotten, long since abandoned and bathed in a hazy miasma as if not entirely there; almost as if she were looking through a—

“My veil,” she said, and lifted a hand to her face only to find nothing, then slowly her vision cleared. Mary reached for her doll and pulled it close.

“It’s okay, baby. Momma’s here,” she said, looking him over. “Fit as a fiddle.”

Mary rose to her feet and the floor shifted beneath her. Then the room brightened, a polychromatic aura flashed against every surface. Suddenly, cabinets appeared on the walls; the pots, the pans, and the wood-burning stove materialized, and the room returned to the way it had been. Prismatic light diamonded on every surface; rubies, sapphires, and opals cotillioned before her eyes. Mary buried her face against the doll to shield them both from the horrible sight.

Creeaaakk!!!

The thunderous concussion jolted her back into the moment. Mary jumped as her vision of the kitchen shifted once again; she stared in disbelief at the throng of people standing before her: workmen attacked one of the walls with steel bars and sledgehammers, a woman wearing men’s clothing held a roll of papers in one hand and a ball of light in the other. Mary tried to move as two men pushed a cart toward her, but was unable, then the cart and the men passed through her as if she wasn’t there.

Her stomach somersaulted and the world turned grey; Mary pulled Christopher tighter and screamed, “This isn’t real!”

A blinding flash of blue-white-blue, assaulted her perception, followed by a heavy clap of thunder, and the kitchen returned to normal. The men were gone, the woman was gone, the strange light had even vanished, and for a moment, everything appeared to be calm. All except for the rain, which was relentless, but it dulled in comparison to the din of insanity.

“James!” she screamed. “We have to get out!”

Panic set Mary in motion. As she ran from the kitchen the strange light returned behind her, but she didn’t dare look back. Shallow breaths raked through her lungs but provided little oxygen and one clear thought hammered into her head with certainty, if we don’t wake up, we are going to die. Oh James, please wake up.

She sent him a mental bullet.

“WAKE UP!”

James was catapulted out of sleep and nearly thrown from the bed. He woke to find the room frigid with a thick ground fog enveloping the floor. He shivered; thick plumes of condensation escaped from his lips. “Mary. Where are you?” he screamed, scanning the room.

“Mary, we have to get out of here!” James took to his feet and ran.

He tore through the hallway, rounded the corner, and nearly passed out as his vision blurred and shifted. The walls, doorways, and bookshelves disappeared, leaving only bare studs and old insulation where they had been. He stopped and stared at a section of ancient pipe, running through an ancient chase way, fastened by ancient fittings. A man appeared at the end of the hallway who looked to be operating a drilling machine of some sort. James ran to him, but the man vanished moments before he reached him.

The house lurched and started to shake once again. The floor jumped and the walls began to crumble, plaster fell from the ceiling in large sections, and the timbers buckled then splintered all around him.

“Mary!” he screamed, just as she rounded the corner at the end of the hall.

“There’s something wrong with the house, it’s trying to kill us!” She grabbed his arm and turned to run. “We have to leave!”

James pulled her back to him and suddenly … he remembered what he had forgotten. He reached into his front pocket and pulled out the key. “We need to get to the third floor. I’m not sure how I know, but I do. If we can make it to the bedroom, we will be safe.”

Mary looked at him and remembered as well. “Let’s go,” she agreed.

A large beam moaned in distress above their heads, then crashed to the floor inches from where they stood. James took off down the hallway pulling Mary with him. Sections of plaster and splinters of wood were thrown at them like shards of shrapnel as they made their way through the gauntlet of debris. Mary shielded Christopher from the brunt of the onslaught as dust and detritus rained down on them from every angle.

Finally, they arrived where the staircase had been, only to find it replaced by a wall-sized bookcase. James fitted the tip of his shoe into a small notch in the baseboard and pressed firmly. There was a loud clunk, then he placed his hands on the right side of the case and pulled outward. The bookcase slid away easily, revealing the concealed stairwell.

“How did you…?” She looked at him

James stared back at her with eyes that had glazed over, his face was as white as death and his lips had turned a cold dark blue. “I’m not sure,” he said, a foggy plume of breath escaped into the air.

The stairs tilted before them and revealed the numerous missing risers since last they saw it. The walls and the ceiling began to buckle and fold inward. Ice and frost spread out in crystal tendrils before them. Mary pulled Christopher closer, and his tiny fingers grabbed onto her dress.

Cautiously, they navigated the staircase, while Devil’s Manse did its best to stop them. An earth-moving tremor ripped through the narrow passage, raining larger sections of plaster over them. Then the floorboards under their feet began to give way as they made their ascent.

James wrapped his arm around Mary and lifted the key to the lock just as the bottom stairs splintered and were replaced by nothingness.

“Hurry, James,” she cried through lips that had turned dark blue.

More stairs were pulverized behind them.

“The house doesn’t want us here,” he said as he slid the key into the lock.

“James,” she said. “I love you. I always will.”

Christopher coughed and James turned the key.

“I love you too … both of you.”

For a moment, the door was there, and then it vanished. The world exploded in a blinding blue pulse and the last of the stairs shattered beneath their feet. The past, the present, and the future, fused together into one existence … and it was summer once again. She stood beneath a trellis of rose and magnolia blossoms on the front lawn. The sun shone down on her face through a veil of white lace. Jed lifted the veil and kissed her.

Charleston Gazette

August 7, 2023

The Historical Society of Charleston has been hard at work on the restoration of Devlin’s Manse, which has lain vacant since the disappearance of the Devlin family in 1902. The plantation and the estate were declared historical landmarks, and construction began in the spring. Early Friday morning, after removing a large second-floor bookcase, workmen discovered a hidden stairwell. leading to a secret third-floor bedroom. The room was virtually obscured from the view of the exterior. When Jake Jefferies pried open the door to the room, he discovered a portal to the past and the answer to a century-old mystery. The skeletal remains of the Devlin family were found in their bed.

James Edward “Jed” Devlin, his wife Mary, and their infant son Christopher vanished in 1902. Foul play had been suspected, but no bodies were ever discovered. It is now believed that the family perished in their sleep. “It looks like the chimney flue was partially blocked and it’s possible the family asphyxiated in their sleep,” said Jefferies. The family is assumed to have died after being overcome by smoke. Medical Examiners from the Charleston Coroner’s Office have positively identified the remains as that of the Devlin family.

Also, a large wooden chest belonging to James Edward Devlin, bearing the insignia J.E.D. was recovered from the basement. Along with family photos and a China tea set, workmen recovered a teddy bear and Mary Devlin’s wedding dress in pristine condition. All items will be put on display at the Charleston Historical Museum. Mysterious reports of unexplained voices and the sound of a crying baby have baffled workers since renovations began. Perhaps closure to this century-old tragedy will finally allow the souls of James, Mary, and Christopher, some solace ... Rest in Peace.

Afterword

Profound sorrow is ageless and can never be completely forgotten for long. Not even the innocence of childhood can prevent the flood. To ease the pain, some houses hold onto their secrets as long as they can. But in the end … there is always a residue.

“Try to find me, James,” the voice of a young girl drifted from behind a second-floor closet door.

The End

Twenty Bucks Each or Fifty for Three

By

Veronica Smith

Caid woke slowly, realizing he was hurting and unsure of where he was. His arms were unmovable with streaking, numbing pain on both. There was a marble sized rock under his left shoulder blade, and it was jabbing into the bone. He blinked a couple of times to see where he was. It was dark but he could see light coming from the sides. He turned his head to both sides then looked up again, straining to see in the dark.

What the fuck?

He was pretty sure he was underneath the trailer of one of those big semis. Thank God it wasn't moving because his hands were tied up and attached to one of the axles. More glances around, as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, revealed that his arms were duct taped, not tied. He could barely move his numb fingers; the fingertips just barely brushed the metal. His legs were loose but heavy. He'd obviously been in this position for quite a while, and his legs were asleep. He opened his mouth to call out and discovered he was gagged; duct tape also from the feel of it.

How did he get here?

He needed to get someone’s attention, but he couldn't yell. Maybe he could kick the rig above him. Hopefully someone was in the cab and could hear it or maybe someone would walk by.

He laid still and listened. He could hear road noise in the distance. He was off the highway, but far enough back that he couldn’t see any headlights coming and going down the road. He could barely hear voices but couldn’t tell the sex or catch any words.

Looking up, he yanked down on his arms and was shocked at the jolt of pain that rocketed through his shoulders. His arms were almost behind his head, so the angle was bad. He realized that his shoes and socks were missing when he used his feet to scoot back a little, so his arms would be straight up. Once in a better position he sighed. That helped a lot; it took a lot of the pressure off his shoulders. However, it didn’t help release him when he pulled again.

He twitched-rolled side to side, trying to dislodge that damned stone that was under his back. It felt like he was lying on a bit of Lego. But no matter how much he fidgeted, he couldn’t get it out.

Resigning himself to the stone becoming a permanent fixture of his back, he lifted up his legs. The pressure on his back increased, and the stone dug in deeper, but he had to know what was directly above him. He explored with his toes and feet to find something he could safely kick. There was an unknown solid piece, and it didn’t feel like it had any sharp edges. He kicked whatever he could reach. But even to his ears, it only makes a deep metallic gong that he was sure didn’t reach beyond his open prison.

He tilted his head back and could see the coupling system. He didn’t know much about trucks, but he knew about that. It’s what connected the trailer to the cab. When he was a kid, traveling with his parents, and he’d see a cab without a trailer, he’d always called it a baby rig. His Mom would laugh but pointed out the coupling jaws that sat out in the open at the back.

“It opens just like pincers on a crab.” She’d told him.” And it clamps down on part of the trailer called a kingpin so they can’t come apart.”

That tidbit of knowledge didn’t do him any good now, but he felt a tiny bit better that he recognized something. He could see toolboxes that were attached on both sides, sitting a couple feet from the ground. If only he could reach one. Kicking one of those would surely make more noise, but from this distance he would break some toes in doing so.

“… twelve hours. That’s too damn long to be driving straight.”

He heard two voices coming from the parking lot. Yes! He was in a parking lot. Looking side to side again, he could now see rows of semi’s to either side of him.

“.. union?”

“That won’t do any good…”

Mmmmm!

Caid tried screaming through the duct tape. Although it sounded loud in his throat, he knew the sound barely registered over the normal sounds of the nearby highway and parking lot.

A tear slid down his face.

The voices got closer and stopped next at the rig that was parked next to “his.”

Caid kicked up, making soft “gonging” sounds as his feet hit the undercarriage.

“Later Bro!”

There was a clap as they slapped hands for a moment.

“Catch you at the next stop.”

“Catch us a Lot Lizard while you’re at it. Haha”

They both laughed as one of the guys climbed up in the cab, starting up his truck with a loud rumble.

Lot Lizard?

The other man walked off further. Caid could see his legs from the knees down as he climbed up into a cab a row up and over.

Why do I know that phrase? Lot Lizard.

Caid watched helplessly as, first one, then the other semi pulled out of the parking lot.

His back ached from the rock, and he remembered a story his mother told him as a child.

The Princess and the Pea.

Well, he was no princess and that fucker that was digging into him was a hell of a lot bigger than a pea. He squirmed even more but felt that all he did was dig it into his skin even deeper.

Maybe I can find something to brace my feet onto and twist my wrists free of the duct tape. They show that on videos all the time. You twist both arms and pull, and the duct tape breaks. I just don’t have anything for leverage.

Caid felt around again cautiously with his feet on the undercarriage. He found one spot that could fit both his feet, toes in, about two inches.

It would have to do.

Caid pushed his back harder on the ground, digging that stone into his lungs (at least it felt like that) and set his feet up in the groove. Then he tried to pull his arms down while pushing his feet into the groove. He felt pain in his back, not just the one stone but the pressure forcing every little pebble and piece of parking lot trash into his back. His shirt rode up, and he felt the pebbles and shards of glass sinking into the skin on his lower back like a homemade tramp stamp.

Push Caid! You can do it!

He was pushing with all his might when his left foot slipped out of the groove. His pinky toe caught the edge of something and snapped completely to the side. Then the foot slammed onto the ground, splitting the skin at the back of his heel.

Caid threw back his head and howled beneath the duct tape. The pain in his back was nothing compared to his foot. Carefully he pulled down his right foot to the ground and set his left foot over the shin to keep the open heel from sitting on the rough concrete.

Fuck that hurts so bad! Why is this happening to me?

He lay there panting in pain, his head pounding from fear, when he heard footsteps.

He lifted up his injured foot and waved it frantically, stretching out to the edge as far as he could.

But it wouldn’t reach, and the man didn’t stop. A still-lit cigarette bounced off the ground next to the truck Caid was under, only to bounce again and land on his shirt. Caid shook back and forth, trying to knock the butt, already smoldering a hole in his shirt, onto the ground.

It burned through and Caid felt like someone had put a torch on the smooth skin of his stomach. He bucked and twisted, and finally the butt bounced off and rolled to a stop a few inches from him.

Fucking litterbug! He could have started a fire. Isn’t it dangerous to toss a lit cigarette under a semi?

Tears trailed down the sides of his face again. He couldn’t figure out a way to get out of this. What would happen to him if the truck drove off with him still attached?

He knew the answer to that one.

If only I’d called Bryce and Tristan tonight. They’d come and get me. They’ll remember how to get here.

They do know this place. Wait. Why did he think that? He’d never been here before. Had he?

Caid lay still to reduce the pain of the back-stone, when he heard voices, male and female, getting closer to him.

“It’s too bad you have to leave so soon.” A woman’s voice purred sexily. “I thought we could have some more fun.”

“The boss is complaining that I don’t make my deliveries on time.” The man said, as they stopped right next to the truck. “It’s just so hard to leave when you’re here.”

Caid could hear the cab door open.

“Oh, it is hard.” The woman giggled and the man gasped.

Caid could see a pair of jeans and boots, the man’s back leaning against the side of this truck. Woman’s legs, bare in a pair of short shorts and her feet clad in a pair of sandals, was leaning up against the man. Since she was so much shorter, Caid could see almost up to her neck. Her large breasts were almost busting loose from the bottom of the tight-fitting cropped tank top she wore with no bra.

“How about I give you a freebie for the road, Jim?” She asked the man. “On the house.”

“I’d never turn you down Joy.” He replied.

You could hear the smile in his voice.

“I’ll be back here in a few days, and we’ll spend the night in your cabin.”

Caid heard a zipper being undone and could see Jim’s pants, then his boxers drop to the ground around his boots.

The woman was about to kneel down when Jim said, “Hold on.” Then he reached up into the cab.

Caid could see her face for a moment before Jim leaned back down and set a small travel pillow on the ground at his feet. He could swear she glanced at him.

Don’t I know that face?

“Thanks Jim.” She said, giving him a loud kiss.

Jim relaxed again, leaning against his truck while Joy positioned her herself comfortably, kneeling on the pillow. Her face pressed up against Jim’s crotch.

From the sounds, Caid knew she was giving Jim a blowjob. But he couldn’t get a better look at her face.

Blowjobs are twenty bucks each. I’ll do all three for fifty.

Caid almost smacked his head hard to the ground at the memory of that phrase.

How do I know that? What three? Does she mean Bryce and Tristan too?

Caid moaned and grunted as loud as he could, but he was nowhere as loud as Jim was, now that he was nearing climax.

With a satisfied cry, Jim came and almost slid to the ground.

“Damn Joy. You really make me happy!”

She laughed as she said, “That’s what I do. Happy happy joy joy!”

Jim chuckled as he stood up and pulled on his boxers and pants.

“Every time you say that it cracks me up. Who knew a tacky cartoon song would be so catchy.”

“You have an oops on your jeans.” Joy said to him.

“Oops my ass.” Jim laughed, “That’s the result of a good woman. Let me run back in and clean this up. You’ll wait here for me?”

“Of course I will.” Joy replied, leaning a bit and looking straight into Caid’s eyes. “Happy happy joy joy.”

Caid’s eyes widened. He remembered. Oh God, he remembered.

Oh fuck! Oh shit! Why in the Goddamn hell did we do that?

Joy smiled at him and looked around. She saw no one so she leaned in and lovingly smoothed his hair.

“I’ll be visiting your buddies next. Bryce and Tristan. One at a time. Just. Like. You.” She told him with a smirk and blew him a kiss. “I know exactly where to find them. After all, I knew how to find you.”

Caid screamed behind the tape, his throat becoming raw from the screaming and lack of water. He had a feeling it wouldn’t last long. As it turned out, it was going to last much longer than he hoped.

She stood up when she saw the truck driver was returning.

“Later Jim!” Joy said, as they shared a quick kiss.

The rig tilted as he climbed up and jumped in. He turned on the engine with a rumble.

“See you in a week.” He told Joy and she smiled, giving Caid a quick wink.

Horrified, he knew where either Bryce or Tristan would be in a week.

Just before the rig began moving Joy’s face turned mean.

“You fucking deserve this. And so do your friends.” She snarled.

A tear ran down her face, but she had an expression of victory masking her sadness.

“Have a good life.” She added as the truck began moving. “What little of it is left.”

Oh shit! Oh shit!

Caid’s heart began to pound and he panted in fear. He quickly jammed his feet up into whatever crevices he could find in the undercarriage, the pain in his foot be damned. He lifted his back off the ground and tried to adjust so he wouldn’t fall.

I don’t want to die. I’m so sorry for what I did. God, forgive me, I am so sorry.

As he glanced back he could see Joy still standing there. She lifted her hand in little wave and Jim honked his loud horn. It almost startled Caid into losing his grip.

If I can just hang on until the next stop. I can get someone to hear me then.

He tried not to think about how many miles it would be until the next stop. Didn’t he hear that other driver talking about twelve hours?

The truck tilted back and forth as it pulled out of the truck stop entrance. The front tires slung small rocks and debris into Caid’s head. It felt like a load of buckshot hitting him, his head, shoulders, and back were peppered painfully. But he kept hanging on. He could do it. He had to do it.

Jim got onto the highway and got into the truck lane. That changed per the counties and states, sometimes it was the left lane, others it was the right. Caid could tell they were in the right lane now, by the edge of the shoulder flying by. They rode along smoothly but Caid’s muscles were beginning to cramp from holding in that odd position. He was lucky he worked out at the gym. He was stronger than most of his friends. Definitely stronger than Bryce and Tristan.

If only he could warn them.

He thought about his life so far. He was young, just twenty-three. But already he’d graduated from college and had a great paying job. He shared a house with Bryce, Tristan, and a couple other guys. They all got along, and many weekends were nothing but parties!

Then it happened that weekend.

Stop! Don’t think about that!

He tried not to. He was focusing all his energy on keeping his feet strong and keeping his body off the road. He knew his body and the ground under a fast-moving rig would be like skin rubbing on a giant cheese grater.

He felt like they’d been driving for hours, but he was fairly sure it had only been about ten or fifteen minutes when he heard Jim yell out.

“Don’t you do it, you asshole! Just get behind me! Fucker!”

The truck slammed on the brakes, almost coming to a stop, and Caid screamed behind the duct tape as both feet slipped out of the grooves. His back slammed into the concrete and his heels bounced a few times. The truck was moving slowly but gaining speed. Caid was trying to simultaneously use his feet to keep his back up and find those crevices in the undercarriage again. Every time he missed, he cried more.

It took only a few minutes for the shirt to shred from his back. The concrete scraped off the skin in minutes. The pain was immense. He felt like he was on fire. He was on the verge of blacking out. If fact, he welcomed it at this point. But it just wouldn’t come.

On a good note, that damned rock wasn’t pressing on his back anymore.

Instead, the memory of that night slammed into him.

***

It was about six months before Caid found himself tied to the bottom of the truck.

Caid, Bryce, and Tristan left the party wasted. They were so bad they didn’t even care about drinking and driving. They climbed into Bryce’s Charger and drove off.

“Where we going?” Caid asked, slurring his words.

“Let’s go find a hooker!” Tristan suggested.

“They’re expensive.” Bryce replied.

“How would you know?” Caid asked, and they all drunkenly giggled.

“Then what do we do? Tristan asked.

“Lot Lizard.” Bryce blurted out.

“What the hell is a Lot Lizard?” Caid asked.

“A truck stop hooker.” Bryce answered. “They are way cheaper than a regular hooker. They’re used to dirty, grimy truckers so we could get one to do anything we want for cheap.”

“My uncle’s a trucker.” Tristan said. “He’s not dirty or grimy.”

“Trust me.” Bryce said. “After they’d been on the road for an eight-to-ten-hour drive, they are all nasty.”

Caid asked. “So, where’s a truck stop?”

Bryce turned to each of them with a grin.

“I know just the place.”

***

Caid felt a bit self-conscious in a Charger while most of the parking lot was eighteen-wheelers and various RVs. They drove around slowly until Tristan grabbed Bryce’s arm and pointed. Between two semis a woman was walking towards them and away from a man who was hitching up his pants, even as he was climbing up in his cab.

“Lot lizard.” Bryce whispered.

“But she’s gorgeous.” Caid said quietly.

“I never said they were ugly.” Bryce replied softly.

“Her then?” Tristan asked, and they all nodded.

Bryce pulled to a stop about ten feet from her. Tristan rolled down his window.

“Miss!” he called out. “Do you have a minute?”

She took one look at the shiny blue Charger and her eyes lit up. She hurried over and leaned into the open window. She crossed her arms on the door, which improved their view of her cleavage immensely.

“You boys looking for a date?”

“Oh yeah.” Bryce replied.

She smiled at each of them.

“Blowjobs are twenty bucks each. I’ll do all three for fifty.”

“What if we want more?” Tristan asked, staring at her cleavage.

She reached in and smoothed Tristan’s hair.

“We can work something out. I have a room out back. It’s not very big. Just a bed and TV but we can all squeeze in there.”

She pointed to where it was and began walking. She beckoned them to follow. Bryce drove slowly as Caid and Tristan began digging through their wallets.

“Fifty for three…” Tristan was drunkenly trying to figure out the split. “That’s sixteen and uh.. uh.. some change. Each.”

“All I have is a twenty.” Caid said, holding up the bill. “Think she’ll have change?”

They all laughed as they neared the small cabin behind the truck stop. The woman was standing next to her door.

They walked up to the woman, and she held her hand out.

“Money first.”

Caid and Tristan each handed her a twenty and Bryce came up with a ten. With a smile she unlocked the door.

As she opened it she said, “My name is Joy. I’m here to make you happy. Happy happy joy joy.”

Tristan remembered the cartoon and cracked up.

“Happy happy joy joy!” Bryce began singing and Caid punched him in the shoulder to shut him up.

“Let him sing.” Joy said. “I love that cartoon too.”

Once they were inside, and it was literally just a bed with a small TV on a stand, Joy shut the door and sat them down at the end of the bed.

“So, who’s first?”

“Let’s talk about the more.” Bryce asked.

Tristan and Caid looked at each other. They didn’t have any more cash.

“We can do around the world for two hundred.” Joy answered. “For each of you.”

“No bulk discount?” Tristan asked with a giggle.

“What the fuck do I look like, Costco?” Joy replied, not hiding her anger.

“Do you take credit card or Venmo?” Caid asked, only half as a joke.

He was too drunk to see how much they were pissing her off.

“Again, do I fucking look like a store?”

Joy was getting pissed now. Every once in a while these rich little snots came there to bang. Even though they had more money than a driver, they were all cheap when it came to paying for her. She’d had it. She didn’t need fifty bucks that damn bad.

“You know, I’ve changed my mind.” Joy said. “I want you all to leave. Here’s your fucking money back.”

The guys all moaned in dismay and apologized profusely.

“No.” She walked to the door and reached for the handle. “I want you to get the fuck out of here.”

Tristan body slammed her into the wall before she could reach the handle. Caid put his hand over her mouth, and Bryce put his hand around her throat.

They pulled her to the bed and threw her on it. Tristan tried to pull off her shirt and only succeeded in giving them a free boob shot. She fought back, punching and kicking. She caught Caid in the crotch and he flew back into a wall, hands cupping his throbbing crotch. He bent over, moaning in pain.

“No one says no to me or my friends!” Bryce yelled at her, punching her in the face.

“Wait!” Tristan called. “I thought we were going to get laid?”

“Look at her,” Bryce retorted. “You really think she’s going to give us anything now?”

“Fuck you!” Joy screamed and tried to jump from the bed.

Caid, Bryce, and Tristan caught her and began punching her, all three of them. They pounded her until both her eyes were swollen shut and her nose was broken. Her shirt had been torn off, but no one looked at her breasts now. They were covered in bruises and scratches. Two of her fingers were broken and she was near to unconsciousness.

They left her on the floor, next to the bed as they fled into the night.

For weeks after it happened they kept waiting for a visit from a police officer, but it never came.

***

Pain! Pain! So much pain!

How could he still be alive? Why was life so cruel as to keep him alive like this?

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been dragged, the memory seemed to take hours, maybe days. Time had no meaning when you were being flayed by the road under a fast-moving truck.

The skin on Caid’s back was the first to go. His pants and underwear shredded only a few minutes later and then his ass cheeks flattened as the concrete grated them down to the bones. His feet bounced up and down with the movement and all the bones shattered. The skin on both heels was completely gone. The heel bones were chipping away with each road bounce.

Despite this, Caid still wanted to live. Although he felt as if he was swimming in a pool of pure pain, he twisted his hands to try to break the duct tape again. He must have done something different this time because one hand came loose, even though the other was still attached.

Holy shit, it worked! Now to work on…

He was unable to catch the axle with his now free hand. His head dropped down and instantly exploded all over the road.

***

“Where the hell is Caid?” Bryce asked Tristan as he was leaving the house. “He was supposed to drive today.”

“I don’t know.” Tristan answered, watching Bryce get into his Charger.

“I’m sorry I’m running so late, or I’d give you a ride.” Bryce told him.

“No worries.” Tristan replied. “I already called an Uber. And it looks like it’s already here. Later dude!”

Bryce drove off as he watched Tristan get into the small red Ford. The driver was a woman. That was all he could tell from this distance. He continued on to work without a care in the world, not realising it would be his turn soon.

The End

Golden Child

By

Mark Towse

England, Late October 1986

He’s got him; he’s sure of it—defeat in his eyes. “You know you want to, Smithy. Come on.”

“I just don’t know, Charlie. It’s a good deal, but—”

“Do it then. Don’t think about it. Thinking’s for broken-hearted.”

Smithy shakes his head and creases his forehead. “Huh?”

“Never mind.” It seemed like a good play at the time, a line from one of his mum’s favourite songs, but he needs to get the boy nodding, not shaking.

Josh looks at his watch again. They've been at it for nearly fifty minutes and don't seem any closer. “Come on, guys, I’ve got to get home for tea.”

“Shut it, Josh,” Charlie snaps. “We’re negotiating.”

“Jeez, alright.” Josh buries his chin into his neck. “They’re only stickers.”

Charlie readies himself to unleash at his friend but thinks better of it. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right, Josh. See, Smithy, they’re only stickers. And look, you’re getting six of mine for one of yours.” He holds the glossy cards up like ten-pound notes and wafts them in his face. “Just think how much closer you’ll be to filling the book.”

“Yeah, but mine’s silver,” Smithy says, shifting his glance to his own watch.

“Don’t mean squat. There are as many out there as there are of the others; it’s just a myth.” Too much, damn it! His dad said it’s okay to skew the truth but never offer an outright lie, and he sold forty cars last month, so he knows what he’s talking about.

Smithy offers another shake of his head. “Mum’s doing lasagne for tea. I best be getting home.”

“She can fucking wait!”

Both Smithy and Josh snap their head towards Charlie, and an awkward silence blankets the corner of the small playground.

Calm, Charlie, Calm. “Smithy, this is just about you and me. The planets have aligned so that we can do this deal.”

“I don’t know, Charlie.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Josh mutters.

“I’m only asking for Tunnel Stalker.”

“It’s a silver, though.”

Charlie feels the deal slipping away. It’s time to go for broke, pull out all the stops. No more Mister Nice Guy. “Smithy, how are you ever going to get through life without making a decision?”

The kid shrugs.

“Smithy, this is a big moment. A coming-of-age thing. And to tell you the truth, you’re fucking it up.”

Josh does a one-eighty and kicks a tuft of grass, starting to feel bad for the kid.

“Did you decide what to have for breakfast this morning?” Charlies says, leaning in.

Smithy nods.

“Did you decide where you’d sit on the school bus this morning?”

Smithy nods again.

“Did you decide what underwear you’d wear today?”

Smithy shrugs.

“Oh, Jesus.” Charlie reaches a hand to the kid’s shoulder. “Two out of three ain’t bad, but three out of four sounds better. What do you say, kid?”

“I’ll sleep on it, Charlie. Talk to me tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Tomorrow the planets fall out of the sky, Smithy. Tomorrow might never come. Tomorrow is—”

“Nearly here,” Josh says but regrets it instantly as he feels the sting against his neck. The acorn lands near his feet, and he boots it into the damp grass.

“Tomorrow, Charlie.” Smithy gets up and slips the precious silver card back into the front sleeve of his album. “I’ve got to go.”

“Alright, fuck off, you prick.” He watches the kid make his way to the other side of the playground, album carefully tucked under his right arm. “Other people want these, though. You’ll live to regret this, Smithy!”

“Mark my words,” Josh mumbles under his breath. “Thought you had him, there, Charlie. Maybe you’re losing your touch.”

“That was your fucking fault,” Charlie says, pushing himself up from the gravel and giving his pants an angry brush down.

“How do you make that out?”

“I’ve got to get home for tea,” Charlie mimics in a less than favourable voice. “Do you think Richard Branson ever said that? Sorry, guys, I’ve got to put this billion-dollar deal on ice because my chips are burning?”

“I guess not, Charlie, but I’m sure as shit Richard Branson picks out his own underwear.”

“Good point.” He slides the cards carefully back into the little plastic wallet and into the album’s inside sleeve. “God damn it! Only three more, and the book is full.”

The pair begin making their way across the field towards Spencer Road, breathing in the scent of earthy mud and thinking about all the useless ways they can fill their evening.

“Johnno only needs two silvers. I can’t let him beat me, Josh.”

“Man, you’re obsessed. I’ve not seen you this excitable since Amy Winters asked to stroke your dog.”

“Yeah. My hot dog.”

They laugh until they have tears in their eyes, setting each other off again as they approach composure, Charlie even momentarily forgetting about the two silvers and gold. Only the sight of Richard Hoggins and crew near the corner shop throws a heavy blanket on their fire.

“Shit!” Charlie stops dead, hoping they haven’t seen him already.

“Why does he hate you?”

“He hates everyone, just me that little bit more.” Charlie edges away, taking cover behind a large oak and driving his back against the bark. “I can’t go that way, Josh. No way. If he gets hold of my stickers!”

“Mate, I have to get back. I’m already on a warning.”

“If he asks, tell him I’m already at home, yeah? Shit! I knew it was a bad idea bringing them with me.”

“Of course, Charlie. That’s a hell of a long way round, though, isn’t it?”

“Just go, Josh! From where they’re standing, you’re talking to a tree.”

“Okay, okay. It’s cool. See you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah, just go.”

Charlie gives it a few seconds before sticking his head out to see Josh approaching the road, head down, not running, but as good as. He hears one of the crew, possibly Richard himself, holler something, but traffic swallows any further exchange. For what seems like an eternity, he waits for them to leave, praying he won’t need to go through ‘Thorny Passage,’ under the old railway line tunnel, and finally, through the field with the scarecrow and decrepit barn. Those types of experiences are for sharing, a ritual that conjures brave-talking but also elevated heart rates and skin that crawls.

But he’s kidding himself. Those kids have nowhere to go, never will.

You’ve got this, Charlie. He scoots behind the cover of the next tree. “Hate you, Smithy.” Another peek, but they’re like smoking statues. He contemplates just waiting it out, but on the occasions when his dad forces him to help with food shopping, he’s seen them there well past seven.

Shit on a stick.

His stomach stirs as he takes in a few breaths of earthiness mixed with cooking food. He’ll be at least thirty minutes late; no silver card and a whole heap of shit from his parents.

Three.

Two.

One.

The marshy ground gives underneath as he makes his run, backpack swinging wildly behind, sticker album tucked tightly under his right arm. He glances to the right, but so far, so good. Thorny Passage awaits only thirty yards ahead, but if they see him now, there’s a good chance they’ll follow, and that’ll take things up a notch. Come on! Thoughts of the upcoming ordeal plague his mind, so he begins envisaging the blank spaces in his album to counteract. Tunnel Stalker, Mole Man, and Swamp Thing are all that stand between him and notoriety among his peers.

Tunnel Stalker. Fucking Tunnel Stalker. It had to be, didn’t it!

Another glance to his right shows the crew is none the wiser. He slows his pace to a jog as he approaches the gravelly path, spiky tendrils like barbed-wire fencing looming on the other side, along with the faded poster of the missing kid attached to the lamp post. He takes cover, turning to his side, ready to shimmy through.

Please leave. Please leave.

A last hopeful glance across, but realisation dawns that he has no choice. Trying to avoid eye contact with the poor kid's face on the poster, he shakes off the backpack, unzips it, and carefully slides the album in. Okay. Okay. Holding the pack tight to his chest, he breathes in and begins to side-step, screwing his face up as thorns start pulling at his clothes and skin. A distant holler snaps his head around, and his stomach drops.

Blood pounds in his ears as he holds his breath—but no voices. He carries on, shrugging off the spiky attackers and pulling the pack even tighter to his chest.

Fucking Smithy. Fucking Josh!

He misses his best friend already, though, each step taking him further into the bowels of the thorny beast. Ducking and weaving as best he can, the prickly vines seem intent on claiming him, and frustration finally sets in as his right foot gets tangled, quickly turning to pressure behind his eyes as he rips it away, catching the side of his cheek with a good one. He traces the wound with the index finger of his right hand and inspects the magnificent red against his paleness. Finally, bringing it to his lips, he finds himself wondering if he even took the right opening; if one day, someone might stumble upon his remains, thorny tendrils emerging from the eyeholes of his skull.

Fucking hell, Charlie, get a grip.

But he remains on the verge of tears until, through a gap in the thorns, he catches sight of the embankment and the rusty roof of the old makeshift station.

The last of the vines latches onto his jumper, but he tears away easily and throws the backpack across his shoulders, ready for stage two, the climb. He takes a breath and begins his ascent, tufts of wet grass and the occasional clump of damp brown leaves making for a challenging scramble, but momentum carries him forward, that and the urgency to get home. Finally, at the top, he affords himself a few gulps of leafy air.

No going back now, Charlie.

He thinks about form class on Thursday morning and how well his story of bravery will go down; how he took the shady route home just for the hell of it. A gust of cool wind highlights the evidence on his face and serves as a prompt for him to stop crapping and get cracking. Tunnel next.

“Okay, let’s do this.”

He lowers himself to the grassy decline, extends his toes, and digs his heels into the ground, shuffling his bum across a few inches at a time. It’s a perfect system until his palm finds a semi-crusty pile of white dog shit hiding in a flurry of tall grass. He can hear Josh’s laughter in his head. “What are the chances?” he would say, or something along those lines.

There’s a bittersweet feeling as Charlie wipes his hand on the grass. Dog poo. Dogs. He thinks about their German Shepherd, Basil, waiting patiently at the window for his return.

Easing himself down the rest of the hill, he notes how ominous the tunnel looks in the distance. Strangely longer, too, as if it’s grown recently, along with the vegetation.

No going back.

He surveys the disused railway line. A case of nature meets humans, and nature is winning. Long grasses and vines work through gravel and spill over the rusty frames of the tracks, even beginning to swallow the brickwork of the tunnel ahead.

So damned dark in there.

He sets off, the urge to cry gone, but the hairs on his neck bristling their warning.

The low sun causes him to squint on the approach, but he still notices the abundance of rabbits scampering and fleeing back to their homes. Stranger danger. He raises an arm as the glare worsens, but not before he catches sight of something glimmering from the tunnel's depths. Gone just as quick, though.

What was that?

Arching his neck, he searches again but only finds fluffy grey floaters as the sun’s rays hit him full on. Another chilly gust blows across as he squelches at his eyes with the ball of his right hand. Temperature’s dropping. Thoughts of being out here without sunlight spur him back into action, and he begins a jog towards the tunnel’s opening.

The plan is to sprint right through. Not overly complex, but at least it’s a plan. He guesses he can do it in twenty seconds tops. Twenty seconds, Charlie; that’s nothing. He reaches an arm out towards the brick and performs a futile series of stretches, noting the graffiti scrawled across the entrance.

For a good time, call Charlie Davenport’s mum.

“That fucker!” He guesses the handiwork of Richard and his minions. Wrong number. Still. That fucker.

Mid-limber, it catches his eye again—something on the floor, just on the border of where dark meets light. He’ll stick to the right, away from oblivion.

Three. A couple of deep breaths of earthy dampness mixed with a tinge of stale urine.

Two. He yanks a leg behind his back, just like on his mum’s aerobic videos.

One. Oh shit!

And he’s off, arms and legs going like the clappers and as close to the tunnel wall as he can get without being part of it. Coldness wraps around him, and the putrid cocktail on entry fades to something much worse, something he’ll try and forget as soon as light washes over him. He hears gravel crunching under his shoes but can’t feel his legs. Darkness seems to be spilling towards him from the sides with each step, and what the fuck was that? He snaps his head to the left, but only a dark void awaits. Cold air stings his lungs as his arms swing by his side, more of a desperate clawing at the air than good form as if trying to grab onto an invisible rope.

Another glimmer.

No! No way!

He draws closer, a second wind, teeth digging into his lip, heart feeling dangerously close to exploding.

There’s just no way.

But it’s not a trick of the light, after all.

A fucking silver!

Over the pounding blood in his ears and the clunk of steel as he dances across one of the rails, he thinks he hears a noise from behind, but a glance over his shoulder only finds unlit recesses. He snaps his head back around, eyes on the prize but still unable to make it out. Preparing for collection, he stoops, knowing the odds are—

Tunnel Stalker!

Long and gangly limbs, skin almost translucent against contrastingly stringy black hair and menacing eyes, he knows the creature off by heart. He’s envisaged the card so many times as if he could somehow conjure it from thin air. With fingers stretched out, he lowers his arm to the ground, grimacing as he catches the sharpness of gravel but not recoiling.

And—strike!

His fingers catch the edge, but he fumbles it, only managing to flick it over.

Shit!

He turns sharply, pushing his right foot against the semi-exposed wood.

Was that gravel crunching?

Something moves within, too, a shadow in a shadow. He saw it; he’s sure of it.

Your imagination, Charlie. Suck it up.

There’s an expelling of air as if someone is—breathing.

It’s just in your head, Charlie!

He wants to turn and sprint for the light but knows he’ll burst with regret when he gets home. A silver! Only two more after that. Before he can talk himself out of it, he thrusts himself into darkness and swoops in again, focusing on the card and nothing else, ignoring the sounds that aren’t really there as he’s the only one in the goddamned tunnel.

Gravel crunches. Something breathes.

It’s you, Charlie, you idiot!

His fingers meet glossiness and clamp down like a crocodile’s bite.

Another rasp. More grinding gravel.

With a garbled war cry, he makes his run, almost toppling over, but momentum and sheer will somehow keep him up. He hears someone calling his name from behind, the voice raspy, rattly, the stuff of nightmares. Charlie Davenport. The feeling in his legs is back, but they only scream at him to stop as his feet fall heavier with each step. So close, he can almost feel the sunlight on his face.

It’s in my head. It’s in my head.

What about the breathing? And you saw something move?

A rat!

Must be a big fucker.

Light falls golden ahead, and it’s a heavenly sight. Home stretch! Gritting his teeth, he sprints for his life, all technique out the window, limbs jerking like a marionette on speed.

In my head!

Gravel crunches. Something hot falls across his neck.

Mum’s doing fish for tea.

He glances over his shoulder before letting himself crease over, sucking in urgent mouthfuls of freshness no longer tainted by—in my head—bad things. The tears are a surprise, but he lets them flow. After all, he’s pretty sure nobody’s watching.

Wisps of breath pepper the air as he shuffles off the backpack and flops to the damp grasses of the embankment. He made it through the tunnel, but its mouth looks no less foreboding. Made it, though! Light dances across the sticker as he holds his reward out in front. He angles it left and right, lending animation to the emaciated form of the Tunnel Stalker. The voice plays again in his head, Charlie Davenport, and he lets out an involuntary shudder. He pictures Josh’s face, the captivated look in his best friend’s eyes as he runs through his account of events. Maybe he’ll believe him. Maybe he won’t. But the sticker sure as hell didn’t drop from the sky.

He takes the album from the pack and begins flicking through the pages, knowing where he’ll find the blank space waiting. It feels like a big moment, far more significant than the placement of a card from a purchased pack. He earned this one. Put his life on the line.

Well, it sounds good in his head.

Page seventy-six.

He carefully peels off the back layer, inhaling the pungent but gloriously familiar adhesive, and with a shaking hand, brings the silver trophy towards the page. The environment is usually much more controlled for the procedure, and he equates it to surgery—one wrong move, and there’s no going back. But luck is on his side today, and it’s a perfect placement.

Two to go.

Conscious of time, he slips the album into his pack and gets to his feet, taking one last prideful look at the conquered tunnel. He gives it the middle finger and turns, beginning his trudge towards scarecrow field, the cool breeze accentuating his now damp behind, prompting a quickening of pace.

There’s undeniable trepidation of what lies ahead, but he’s a tunnel beater and has a trophy to prove it. His legs feel springy again, and his heart rate begins to settle close to normal.

In my head.

A gust of iciness bites at his skin, and he buries his chin into his neck and folds his arms. The further he gets away from the tunnel, the more his mind wanders back to everyday things like being late home for tea, maths homework, Amy Winters, and the fact Johnno still has the edge, only needing two silvers. It’s a long wait until pocket money day on Sunday, too. He can already see the kid’s smug face as he parades around the school. “Look but don’t touch.” It will mean nothing then. All the deals, the extra homework, washing neighbourhood cars, watching others chew on impossibly colourful candy. And the goddamned tunnel. All for nothing!

He lifts his head to see a speck of a bird resting on top of the fence in the distance, just visible over the slight rise. On the other side of it, he knows the tracks veer off to the left, leading their way to where the next station used to stand. Part of the golf course now where his dad sometimes plays.

Halfway home, Charlie!

He ups his tempo as the wind wraps around him. It’s getting cold, and he’s not dressed for it, his thin jumper offering little protection and the arse of his half-mast pants wet through. His nose feels like ice as he wipes a string of mucus away. Alternating between a march and a jog, he soon nears the edge of the field, and in the distance, sees the scarecrow’s chequered black and yellow shirt flapping in the breeze, and behind it, the barn he and Josh joked was full of missing children.

His feet finally leave the gravel and begin treading silently on grass that spills through the bottom of the rickety fence. He coils his fingers around the soft wood, surveying the path ahead, squinting into the low light that catches the moisture on the grass. A beautiful sight if not for the—fucking scarecrow. He plans his route carefully, eyes carving their way down the right side of the field past the ominous figure and back to the centre, away from the pools of brown and that godawful barn.

Halfway, Charlie.

The fence gives a little as he straddles it, but he safely drops to the other side, shoes sinking into softness. With a cursory shuffle of his backpack, he sets off, staying close to the fence and trying to avoid the boggier patches that become more abundant with every step. He picks his spots, pointing his toes like a ballerina one minute and taking fairy steps the next, eyes occasionally darting towards the hay-filled fucker with gravel for eyes.

Paranoia, on this occasion, pays.

Hardly able to believe it, he watches it lift against a small rise of grass as another blast of cutting wind rears up. He sees flashing black and yellow from peripheral vision, but his stare remains firmly fixed on the patch of ground twenty yards to his left and just short of a sizable puddle of brown. The wind cuts out, and the card falls back, silver side up. Swamp Thing. Momentarily, he can’t move; he just stands there, mouth open, transfixed by the plant-based entity framed in glorious silver.

He tests the ground ahead. Soft, but no worse than the path trodden so far. Already lowering himself to the ground in preparation, he edges forward again. Nobody’s going to believe me. He takes two steps, moving stealthily like a big cat towards its prey, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Just one more card after this. His stomach growls. Fear, excitement, hunger, in a perfect storm.

Johnno’s face will be a picture.

Nearly within reach, he lets his foot come down, but the ground makes a squelching sound. He tries a different patch, but this time, the brown liquid threatens to spill into his shoe. Shit! “Just got to rip the bandage off,” as his mum says. The thought fills him with sadness and a need to be home. Fish for tea. He readies himself, slapping his thighs as if to wake up his legs, and as another gust of wind peters out, he makes his move, scrambling forward, grimacing as cold and dirty water finds its way into his shoe. His heavy legs scream at him as he trudges into the murk, up to his ankles now. Left leg forward, and it plunges deep. Right leg forward, and a high-pitched squeal leaves his lips as cold and dirty water settles just below his kneecap.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

He sees a bubble appear on the surface of the puddle ahead.

Desperately, he tries to unplug his left leg, but it’s—stuck. He throws himself forward, fingers stretched out towards the sticker, but just as they brush against its edge, the wind whistles around him, sending shirttails flapping and the silver card lifting.

The sight of another bubble replacing the last sends him into a frenzy, clawing and pushing at the soft ground, brown water splashing either side. Come on! Come on! He manages to rip his left leg free, and he takes the opportunity to reach for the card in the dying gust, continuing his earthworm squirms.

Yes!

Another bubble emerges on the brown surface, and—

Something has him. Something’s latched onto his right foot.

Imagination again, Charlie.

As his left leg slides redundantly behind in a futile effort to get traction, his hands slop against mud. A ripple in the water sparks even more aggressive struggling, but it’s still locked tight. Something’s holding it; that’s why Charlie. He fumbles at the straps of the backpack and swings it to the right, launching his upper half onto it and trying to wiggle loose. Another bubble replaces the last, far too quickly for his liking. He closes his eyes and envisages his leg coming free, and—holy shit, it’s working! Thrashing his upper body left to right against marshy ground, he continues to inch forward, picturing himself running across the field to the safety of Anderson Road, waking up in a warm bed to the smell of pancakes, only needing one more sticker.

He’s out, shoeless, but he’s out!

Launching his backpack ahead of him, a little further each time, he uses it to drag himself as far away from the puddle as possible. It’s slow progress, but it’s better than having limbs exposed underground. Finally, as he nears his visible footprints, exhausted and covered head to toe in mud but silver card spotless between his teeth, he scrambles desperately to his feet and begins his run down the right side of the field, legs leaden but still putting up one hell of a fight. He throws his backpack across his shoulders and sniffs back a string of snot that threatens to tarnish his trophy.

Feet still squelching but sinking a little less each step, he focuses on a small patch of grass ahead but well short of the scary barn. Even as he notices movement to his left, probably the wind, he doesn’t let himself turn. Even as he hears something akin to splashing, likely my own damned feet, he keeps his gaze fixed on the circle of grass and his arms pumping. Even as he hears the watery rasp of his name, Charlie Davenport, he doesn’t succumb to the temptation for a nervous peek. He runs for his life, doing it justice until his body finally gives up, and he doubles over, chugging on cold air and almost vomiting in the process.

In my head

In my head.

In my stupid fucking head.

In almost the dead centre of the field, standing in his nominated safe zone, chest heaving, and the silver card still between his teeth, Charlie turns back towards the large brown puddle to see nothing but his dirt-covered shoe sitting at the edge of its rim.

What the fuck? There’s no way; there’s just no way.

But he considers that in all the chaos, he just might not have seen it come out.

He snaps the card from his mouth, lips aching from pinching around the card’s glossiness, filled with relief as he’s unable to find even a single tooth mark. To be sure, he lifts it to the evening rays, but the blurry white spotlight only offers a bulky mass of green vegetation and black holes for eyes that offer only emptiness.

The watery gargle of his name, the splashing, the shoe near the puddle's rim, all in his head?

Charlie Davenport.

His body offers an exaggerated shudder above and beyond the persistent shivering, and he snaps his head towards the puddle. Back to the barn. The puddle. The barn. The puddle.

Get a grip, Charlie!

He’s beyond cold. Clothes heavy with dirt, too. But he can’t wait for a second longer.

As the grasses give once more to the blast of wind, Charlie presses his palm against the ground of his little haven, and satisfied he’s not going to be sucked arse-first into it, he takes a seat and unzips his pack. Another sweep of the field, and another, another, and he finally opens the book.

Page thirty-two; he knows it off by heart. And the ritual takes place—unpeel, sniff, position, place.

Swamp Thing. Conquered.

He lets out a groan as he pushes himself to his feet, zipping the album back into his pack. Every part of him aches, and the chill is to his bones, not helped by the ever-increasing wind. But two fucking silvers!

One last obstacle. The one with the missing kids chained up inside.

It crosses his mind to run, but his legs have other ideas, and he decides to save his energy for when he draws level with the barn. Besides, no danger here. All in your mind, Charlie. He settles to a pace just above normal, his feet finding more solid ground, and as far as he can see, the path getting even clearer ahead. Twenty minutes or so, and he’ll be home. Late for tea, and inevitably there’ll be a scolding, but that’s just fine; he’ll take it.

One more card. Johnno’s face will melt.

As the wind cuts across again, he can hardly feel his fingers, almost translucently white as he holds them out in front. He imagines holding them in front of the fire and that slightly uncomfortable but welcome tingling as they—

Shit on a stick!

Sure that his eyes are playing tricks, he follows it to the ground because there’s just no way. Even with his previous finds, even as the card lands on the tuft of grass face side up, and even as the last of the light shimmers across the brown hairs, he can’t bring himself to believe there are only twenty yards between him and Mole Man.

He’s in the classroom, people climbing over each other to see. Oohs and aahs, and pats on the back and high-fives. Amy Winters with a twinkle in her eye. And in comes Johnno, his smile fading to a grimace as realisation dawns.

Finally, he exhales and begins his approach, skin crawling with excitement, all thoughts of children in the barn fading. Fifteen yards away, the wind gets up again, but the card lifts only slightly. His stomach growls, but he’ll be home soon, eating fish and throwing Basil the scraps.

The sound of a branch snapping underfoot catches him off guard, but the gold shimmer has him like a tractor beam, and it’s only ten yards from his grasp. His skin prickles as he imagines placing the final sticker in the album and being the envy of the school. He even starts running through a small speech in his head, but just as he gets to the part about the bubbling puddle, the ground begins to give.

Shhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitt.

As pain explodes in his right leg, he lets out a pained squeal and crumples to his side, nursing his ankle. Teary eyes fall across the broken branches and tufts of grass that served as his trap, Mole Man resting on top, just slightly out of reach.

From deeper within the darkness, Charlie hears breathing, and—a squeal?

In your mind, Charlie.

But this time, he doesn’t buy his own bullshit.

He gets to his elbows and pushes himself backwards, thrusting his legs alternately against the ground. Dim light falls through the opening above, but the dark tunnel ahead swallows most of it.

More breathing.

With eyes on the solitary star above, he drives back into the wall of mud, offering his cards to the Gods in return for his safe passage. It must be nearly ten feet back to the surface, and no way could he climb back up, even if he wasn’t already exhausted and sporting a twisted ankle.

“Help!”

His voice is weak, and besides, there’s nobody up there.

“Help!”

Something’s coming.

Another high-pitched screech emerges from the depths. The sound of something scraping, too.

“Please, help!”

He peers into the tunnel, warmth spreading across his thigh as he catches sight of the approaching silhouette, a huge lumbering mass of darkness, the top of its head almost trailing across the ceiling.

“Mum’s doing fish for tea.”

He snaps his stare towards the star and offers a final prayer but only gets another squeal for his efforts.

It finally comes into view, claws as sharp as knives carving lines in the muddy wall to its right, long snout twitching at the air in front. Short dark fur covers most of the body that stands at least seven feet tall. It has no nose or ears as far as he can see but huge eyes as black as space and an elongated mouth almost as long as the snout that houses rows of razor-sharp teeth.

“Charlie Davenport,” it squeals, what looks to be a child’s backpack clasped in its left claw.

Charlie pushes back against the wall again. “Help!”

The creature offers another squeal, and Charlie helplessly watches as it begins sprinkling the contents of the pack on the ground: A small shoe, a hairbrush, a Rubik’s Cube, candy bar wrappers, a Polaroid camera, and a host of other paraphernalia, most of which look like they once belonged to a kid like you, Charlie.

A large book is the last thing to drop, helped by the creature turning the pack inside out as it offers a series of excited squeals. It crouches, clumsily flicking the pages over. “Charlie Davenport.”

“Let me go, please. I’ll tell no one. Promise!” So many children, perhaps a dozen photographs to each page—and the book so thick. “Please!” The tears begin, but he can see clearly enough as the creature flattens the sheet and starts tapping one of its blades in the centre of the only golden frame. A light monochrome version of himself smiles proudly from within, and beneath, in thick black ink, his name is printed in a strange font full of flicks and curls.

“Smile,” the creature squeals, bringing the Polaroid to its face.

The camera bathes Charlie in white light, capturing a boy at the height of fear, a kid who knows there'll be no intervention from the gods, no celebration, no fish for tea, no kiss from Amy Winters, no walking Basil tonight.

As Mole Man wafts the print in the air, squealing with anticipation, Charlie glances at the card sitting atop the branches and grass, his mind full of death and one crazy thought that he can't shake.

At least I was a gold.

The End

The Donkey Lady

By

C. W. Stevenson

Juan flicked a cigarette to the side of the road. With the palm of one hand, he wiped his brow and flung the beads of sweat to the welcoming breeze. He wiped the rest on the side of his jeans.

It was almost dusk.

Perfect timing.

He’d hitchhiked to the spot outside of San Antonio to make it to the bridge. The dead were supposed be here… and he wanted to see them.

Juan wasn’t religious. But it wasn’t for lack of trying. If he could catch a glimpse of something unexplainable; an apparition, a sign of the supernatural, anything, then perhaps he’d find God in the darkness.

Unlikely.

Stories. They’re only stories.

La Llorona, La Planchada, El Cucuy, he’d heard all of the ghostly tales from his grandmother. Abuela was the one who’d first told him the tale of the Donkey Lady and the area she haunted; the Medina River, the surrounding woods where her home once stood, and the bridge.

People from all around, mostly high school kids, came to Old Applewhite Bridge, more commonly known as the Donkey Lady Bridge, to see the benevolent spirit for themselves. Some came away from the bridge telling a tale of a wailing woman, or the screech of some unknown large animal. Others claimed coming away from the bridge with car dents shaped like hooves. Juan suspected the evidence went hand and hand with the booze and dope the kids brought with them. They wouldn’t be at the bridge tonight—half the damned city had gone to see a new up-and-coming artist called Selena all the youngsters were raving about.

Just me and Donkey Lady tonight. Juan clutched his abdomen. The gas station burrito the old man had given him wasn’t sitting well in his stomach. Remembering the pieces of fried flour and beans falling from the man’s toothless mouth and into his lap made Juan’s stomach feel even worse. At least he’d had a few good cassette track tapes in the old farm truck to choose from.

Together they’d listened to “Gentle on my Mind” and “Wichita Lineman” by Glen Campbell while the old man lectured him about the dangers of hitchhiking. Juan wasn’t much one for American music. But he had to admit the old man had good taste.

He whistled “Gentle on my Mind” as he walked.

Around him, oak trees lined the rocky, unpaved road. An overgrowth of weeds and tall grass made it nearly impossible to see into the woods that surrounded him. Crickets began to sing their own familiar tune.

As he rounded a bend in the road, he saw it.

Consisting of half-rotten wood, the narrow bridge stood over the gentle flowing waters of the river. Somewhere nearby, it was said the woman’s house still stood in ruins—charred rocks mostly, the only thing not destroyed in the flames.

Juan had scoffed at his Abuela’s tale but could not deny the way it left his stomach a hollow shell. After a young man had toyed with one of her donkeys, the animal had savagely bitten him, ripping away two fingers in the process. Running home to his wealthy father, his father and several men under his charge returned to the farm and rounded up the woman, her husband, livestock, and three children into the house and burned it down with them screaming inside.

But the woman had unmercifully survived.

Left with hands melted down to nubs resembling a pair of hooves, and a charred, elongated face, the Donkey Lady wailed her pain and fury for years, promising vengeance on those who’d disfigured her and murdered her family.

No one had believed the words of the hideous peasant.

Her life in shambles, she plagued the countryside with her insane ramblings of vengeance and disfigured form, terrifying all who crossed her path. She survived long enough to be considered an old woman, mostly by foraging and begging for food from those with the heart to help, all the while still living beneath the blackened ruins of her home.

Until one day, the young man who’d been bit on her property confronted her while crossing the bridge near her home.

Juan walked closer to the bridge, the same bridge, his gait a mite slower, his head darting from the woods to the road, the feeling of being watched quickly sending his mind into near panic. He stopped for a moment to control his breathing.

Having regained his composure, he walked on.

He grabbed the side of the bridge as he went. It wasn’t difficult to imagine the Donkey Lady being tossed over the side of the bridge by the young man to her death. Like Juan’s grandmother, he imagined a frail woman, light, withered skin clung tight to old bones. With a quick splash, she would have sunk into the river, her dress weighing her down, her nubs poking through the top of the water for a savior to pull her free, but no one would come. No one had come. No. She had drowned. Disfigured… then murdered decades later, her family unavenged.

“I’m sorry,” Juan muttered, speaking as if he were at the foot of a grave. In a way, he was.

Taking out his last cigarette, Juan lit it and stared out across the water. It wasn’t so bad here, he’d decided. In fact, he found it quite peaceful. No car horns and bright city lights, no shops, no crowds of people. Just insects singing and the quiet trickling of flowing water.

In this rare form of silence, away from it all, he found solace from the horrors that’d befallen this place. It seemed impossible such a tragedy could have taken place here. Comical even.

His lips had begun to curl into a smile when he heard a screech.

***

Eyes bulging, he searched the trees for an owl amidst the branches. He found nothing. It was almost dark now. The lush vegetation seemed to press around him, skeletal branches seemingly reaching out toward him for a final embrace.

Not far down the banks of the river, something that had been crouched stood upright. He could make out a dark shape, but it was soon lost in the dense forest. Whatever that’d been there, crouching, had been watching him. The notion was disturbing, animal or not.

A vagrant.

It was possible. He cursed himself then for not bringing so much as a pocketknife. Some protection was better than nothing.

Juan stopped leaning on the wooden rails.

From one end of the bridge, the road turned into a dead end. No one lived out this way any longer. The other end was the way he’d come.

Any sane person would’ve left, but not Juan. This was the feeling he’d been waiting for. The sign to leave was the sign to stay.

Wait for it. Witness it. Then run.

The logical part of his brain hadn’t ceased to ridicule his paranoia. In the most likely of cases, he’d seen a racoon, or perhaps an opossum. They grew to monstrous proportions out in the countryside. With so many insects to eat, it made sense.

Yes, that’s it. Large forest animals.

Maybe a deer.

Probably that.

Hell, he’d passed three dead ones on the side of the road while hitchhiking.

Juan chuckled to himself, at the absurdity of the situation, blowing a plume of smoke along with his laughter. He tossed the cigarette into the river below.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw something at the end of the bridge.

No, someone.

He turned to look, then screamed, surprised his voice could make such a sound. So hopeless. Resigned to death.

The Donkey Lady screeched through melted lips. Black hollows were its eyes, but Juan knew they were gazing at him. Mostly, its face was a lump of elongated flesh, similar to that of a horse… or a donkey. At its sides, nubs for hands pinched at a partially torn dress, a dress unfitting for this day and age.

Juan looked around, searching for evidence that this horrific thing was an illusion or some part of an elaborate joke.

His stomach sank when the horrible truth dawned on him. He was alone.

Nothing but him, the bridge, the dead trees, and the dead thing now limping its way toward him.

It came fast despite the dramatic way it hobbled, its jaw hung slack, its burnt fleshy skull bobbing up and down as if it hadn’t control of its neck muscles. One nubbed hand reached out for him.

“Mijo,” Juan thought he heard it say.

He stumbled backwards. Juan yelped as a splinter from the rotted wood entered his hand in the fall. Pulling it free, blood trickled from the wound. He tried to get up, but to his horror he realized his right foot would not move.

“Mierda!” he yelled in as much fear as pain.

The thing was but a dozen feet away now. It screeched again, black bile leaking from where its eyes should be, its nostrils, its lips.

His right foot was lodged into a rotten hole in the bridge.

Juan tried to twist it free, but it was stuck tight. Undoing the shoelace, he pulled his foot free, shot up, and darted for the dead end of the bridge where wood planks met a wall of dark forest. He felt a sharp pain in his foot and yelled out again. Looking down, a rusty nail protruded from the bridge and coated with his blood.

Much to his regret, he glimpsed the creature stopping to bend low where his foot had been caught. It stooped lower, sniffing until the leaking slits that were its nostrils found the small pool of blood from his hand.

A tongue lolled out from its slack jaw and lapped at his blood, smearing with its own black liquid running down its face. Its head jerked up at him, and once again it stood.

“Miiiijo,” it wailed, this time clearly as its dead lips mouthed the word long and terrible.

“I’m not your son!” he shouted back. “I’m not your son. He’s dead! Gone!”

“Mijo,” it said in defiance, its brow furrowed.

Turning to flee, Juan limped on one leg—one limping creature coming after another. He searched for an escape. Straight ahead took him into the dense forest, its domain. Behind him, the Donkey Lady was nearing. The bridge was narrow enough that she could simply lunge out and grab hold of him.

To either side there was a steep decline to the banks of the river.

Stay where he was and accept his fate, or head for the river. It was no choice at all.

Juan picked the least steep climb to the water. He sat and began to scoot his way down. Above him, the Donkey Lady peered over the side of the bridge, a long string of its dark ichor sliming its way down until it met the water.

He went quicker, scooting down, down, down, gritting his teeth at the pain emitting from his hand and foot. Still, Juan persisted.

He looked back up toward the bridge.

Nothing.

But behind him, the creature was crawling after him.

“Dios mio… please, please no.”

He was going too slow. At this speed it would catch up. Then who would he need to convince that it was real? Perhaps he would haunt alongside the old crone once he was dead. And others like him would come to this place to catch a glance at the impossible things that dwelt here.

There was a loosening of rock and soil, and to Juan’s horror, the Donkey Lady was flying toward him, or so he thought. No, she was falling. Having lost her clumsy footing, the creature fell into the very waters she’d perished in so long ago.

Reaching the bank, Juan stood. He was just about to keep moving when the two nub hands of the Donkey Lady burst from the water and caught him around his injured foot. She was pulling him into the water with her.

“No!”

Juan grabbed handfuls of grass and soil, but it did little good. Whatever the woman had become, it was strong, and unrelenting in its pursuit. His injured foot held tight between the thing’s nubs, twisting, pulling, doing all it could to bring him into the river. He felt its mouth on his foot. He felt a cold tongue flicking at the hole the nail had made, sucking, slurping, stealing all it could of him for itself.

He dug his fingers into the soil of the bank and held on for dear life.

“Please God!”

He believed now, he realized. His faith… found on the banks of a small Texas river while an unspeakable horror attempted to drag him in. He might have laughed if he were capable at that moment.

Like his father who’d devoted his life to God on D-Day, promising to serve Him after he’d witnessed his closest friend blown to red mist by Nazi artillery in the foxhole beside him. He’d survived and had become a man of the church. To his great shame, only his eldest son, Juan, had not followed in the footsteps of Christ.

Now, he would gladly do so. That is, if he lived to tell the tale.

Determined to escape, to survive, Juan kicked with all of his might into the face, arms, and chest of the undead creature.

One more vicious kick with his free foot to the jaw still trying to get at the bloody wound in his foot sent the thing sinking back into the river.

Finally free of the monster’s grasp, Juan limped away as fast as he was able. When he looked back, nothing had emerged from the water.

***

His foot throbbing in pain after a little less than a quarter mile away from the bridge, Juan was bloodied, covered in sweat, cobwebs, and mosquito bites. He was exhausted. Worst of all, he was out of cigarettes.

Off to his right, the trees gave way to a small field surrounded by woods. In the middle was a small, rock house. He could only just make out its form.

A place to hide, or at least to catch his breath.

The last sliver of light had faded only minutes ago. He needed somewhere to stay, and the Lord had provided. Holding his hands together to the heavens, he began making his way to the rock house.

Inside, there wasn’t much more than rubble and a dirt floor. Weeds had grown over the open window slots. There was a nest of red wasps in one corner of the main room. Juan sat in the corner opposite of that. There was another room, but he wanted the closest access to the front entrance should he feel the need to flee.

Juan examined the wound on his hand and foot. His hand would be okay, but he’d need to get a tetanus shot for his foot. After all, the nail he’d stepped on had been ancient and rusty.

Carefully, Juan used the rocks from the wall to hoist him up and peeked over the edge of the open window. He couldn’t hear the river, but he knew the rock house was only a short distance away.

Chills crawled up his spine as he heard it.

“Mijoooo,” it called out.

He could not see her through the darkness. That made it all the worse. He could hardly see his own hands in front of him.

She continued to call out, her voice getting further and further away, traveling down the side of the bank as he had.

He prayed that she would continue on her way.

Juan shook his head then buried his face into his hands.

How had it come to this?

He had come here for a sign of the supernatural and had witnessed it. He was the trespasser. The interloper who’d come to antagonize the dead. This was her territory he now resided in.

Taking a deep breath, he tried not to think about what he couldn’t change, only what he could.

Juan needed rest. At dawn, he could sneak his way back to the road and hitchhike his way home. If he arrived back in time, he’d attend church with his family for the first time since he was a child.

He promised himself he would not fall asleep. A little rest was all he needed. He’d just shut his eyes, only for a short time.

He closed them.

Crunch.

He peaked one eye open.

Crunch. Crunch.

Then the other eye.

Something was walking across the dead grass outside the house.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

It stopped then. For a long moment, he remained still. He wished he had some light. He needed to see if the creature was near or if it was just some varmint coming to investigate him.

The lighter!

He removed the cigarette lighter from his pocket and quickly held it out in front of him. The flame illuminated the cabin in its entirety. The rocks were far older than he anticipated. Dark with mold. He held the lighter closer to the wall for a closer look.

No, not mold, he realized. Juan’s eyes went wide.

Charred.

It was her home. The home that’d been burned with the Donkey Lady and her family inside.

He cursed himself for being so ignorant. But he was so tired. So afraid. He wanted out. The comfort of his bed. His grandmother. He just wanted to be home.

“Mama?” came a whisper in the dark.

From the corner of the other room, a small hand, split skin, and burned to a crisp, reached around the opening where a door once stood. Another hand reached around the other side. And another on top of it.

Three figures emerged from the door. The children. Their dead faces gaped open like their mother. Their father’s shadow cast over them in the glow of the small flame.

It pointed at him.

“Intruso.”

At the main entrance, the Donkey Lady smiled at the shriveled, walking corpses that’d once been her family. What they were now, Juan couldn’t guess. Monsters. Spirits. Dead things. But not people. Not anymore.

All five rushed for him, their inhuman cries of rage piercing his ears.

Grunting as he hoisted himself upward, Juan dove through the open window, landing with a hard thud as he hit the ground. He tongued at a cracked tooth and felt a rock against his jaw. Painfully, he pushed himself upward and began making his way to the river in pure darkness.

He limped forward, tripping several times as he stumbled over rocks and small bushes.

“Nooo!” he screamed, hearing the noisy sound of small, hurried feet behind him.

The children pulled at his pant legs with what should’ve been weak hands, but instead were powerful, and gripping him tight, keeping him from walking any further. In his desperation, Juan held the tiny flames of the lighter against one of the children’s faces. It cackled at him and continued to tug until he fell.

His mouth filled with blood as he felt another one of the children rip a large chunk of his cheek away.

“Pleathe!” he whimpered, doing his best to crawl away from the tiny devils.

If he could make it to the river, he could let the current carry him down and away from these nightmarish creatures. Then his own nightmare could end. Whether he’d drown or grab onto the bank in time to save himself, any outcome was better than being ripped apart by these things.

Then he felt a large hand grab his shoeless, injured foot. It snapped it to the side, breaking his ankle and tearing the cartilage inside.

Juan screamed again, this time for his mother who’d passed away long ago, then for his grandmother who’d become like a mother. Neither came to his side, took the pain away, or saved him.

The children held him down as their father snapped his other ankle to the side.

“Intruso!” one child cried out, a little girl by the looks, only a few strands of hair hanging from one side of her misshapen face.

“Intruso!” the other two cried after their sibling, digging their tiny hands into his forearms.

Their father dragged him back across the dead grass, the rocks, loose soil entering his bloody mouth, the children skipping close behind with glee… back to the cabin.

Juan’s teeth clattered in fear at the dark outline of the Donkey Lady crouched in the same corner he’d first chosen, awaiting him with outstretched arms, her nub-hands wriggling, beckoning him to come closer.

The dead man flung him by one leg, delivering him to the feet of the Donkey Lady.

A nubbed hand shakenly stroked down his bloody cheek.

“Mijo,” the Donkey Lady said lovingly, continuing her tender strokes down his cheek.

Juan did his best to smile, to make himself into the loving son this thing wanted—or that he thought it wanted. He could play the part if it meant life. But the strokes came rougher, the nubby ends of her hands pushing into his cheek, into his wound, opening the hole in his face wider, tearing it apart. Tearing him apart.

He would have screamed for God if he were able.

The last thing he saw before his eyes were torn from his skull was the dead man and children rushing over to join the feast. Feeling their teeth rip away skin, suck his blood, and gnaw on his bones, he prayed the pain would end soon.

He prayed.

The End

The Coming of the Storm

By

Jeffrey Thomas

Dolores’ brother had played trumpet in a banda, and this sound reminded her of that...a trumpet. But one prolonged blast, sustained yet uneven – occasionally devolving into more of a metallic screech – and seemingly greatly amplified over a powerful speaker system.

She had turned off her vacuum cleaner to better hear it, and now took a few steps to the window. Gazed out upon the ash-colored city, over which a mass of dark brown clouds had brooded for hours like an inverted mountain range, so that it had seemed near twilight even before it was near twilight, as it was now. Even as she looked out she flinched back as a vein of lightning strobed in the distance. Thunder rumbled loudly, subsided into a low growl, but that trumpet blast continued in the fore.

Across the street, supported by a tall post, was a digital billboard – almost directly aligned with the fourth floor window she stared through. The billboard glowed like a giant TV screen against the coming of the storm, and the coming of night. Upon this screen was the proudly scowling face of presidential candidate Ron Leeway, looking all the more bloated for looming so large. In a continuous loop, words scrolled down to the right of his head in red, white, and blue letters: VOTE LEEWAY! Register by October 11! In smaller yellow type, scrolling from left to right across the bottom of the screen, were the words: Dedicated to working families! Dedicated to the unborn! Dedicated to the Second Amendment! Dedicated to keeping our borders safe! Dedicated to YOU!

Dolores stood there with her chin raised and head cocked a little to the side, listening to that trumpet-like noise and trying to understand it...listening until it finally, finally faded away. Another jagging flash above the boxy horizon of city rooftops, another avalanche roar of thunder, rolling in and away like a passing train. The large plate glass window vibrated briefly with the boom. She felt uncomfortably small, puny, looking upon this scene, hearing the discord of the heavens. Dolores stepped back, turned to resume vacuuming the office’s no-color carpet.

She much preferred cleaning offices to hotel rooms. How many times had she had to deal with men who thought that a little extra in the way of a tip entitled them to more than the changing of linens and the scrubbing of toilets? Entitled them to her body, as if she were just a commodity they could avail themselves of, like taking home the extra little soaps and shampoo bottles when they checked out. One middle-aged man – having told her it was okay to enter and clean his room, only to reveal himself naked under his open bathrobe – had tried pushing a hundred dollars at her in one hand, while reaching to encircle her waist with his other. She had refused the money, despite it being more than they usually offered, and even though it could have benefitted her much at that time. She’d told him she had a husband at home, which was true in a sense: her husband hadn’t divorced her, but he’d abandoned her for a younger and prettier woman, and “home” was back in Oaxaca. Frustrated, the hotel guest had pocketed his money and grumbled drunkenly, “Oh, get out of here, then. Better yet, get out of my country, how about?”

Backing out of the room, her voice trembling with her own frustration, Dolores had told him, “I am here legally.”

“Right,” the man had snorted, closing his door in her face.

She pushed her vacuum into all the corners of this office in which matters beyond her experience and comprehension were addressed, by people who made more money each year than all four members of her team combined. Jasper had eight cleaners in his employ, total. The other four had taken their van to another office building, elsewhere in the city. In this one, they were one person to a floor. Ruben always got the ground floor, Elina the second, Manuelo got three, and for Dolores it was always four. Four was a combination of open office plan, in which large work areas were merely partitioned into cubicles, and in this section a cellular plan, in which the offices – obviously, belonging to the company’s more important personnel – were individual rooms closed off by doors. It would take each worker about four hours to do the entirety of their respective floor, and then it was on to another four hours at another building. Tomorrow night it would be two different buildings. (Tonight and tomorrow night and every weeknight, Dolores would slip into her bed – alone – around 2 AM.)

Dolores liked this arrangement; she liked the solitude. Sure, she enjoyed interacting with the others on the rides in the van here or there, and on their breaks, and she socialized with some of them – Elina especially – outside of work, because she didn’t have many friends here. But there was definitely a lot to be said for dwelling for good swaths of time in near silence, listening only to her labors, the mind-numbing hum of her vacuum. Which was why that odd trumpet sound, a few minutes ago, had been such an alien intrusion.

Dolores unplugged her vacuum, pulled it and her mobile cart of cleaning materials out into the hallway, let herself into the next office. It was indistinguishable from the last. Well, aside from a few framed photos and awards on the desk, but the families in these photos had become largely interchangeable to her. Not that she didn’t smile at the occasional baby picture, or experience mild surprise at seeing a pet as the subject of a framed photo instead. She dusted these pictures lightly, respectfully. She never tried to open the desk drawers. She didn’t steal candy from dishes on the desks. There might be cameras, after all, and she needed this job. She sent money home to her elderly widower father every month, and of course paid rent to her niece Alejandra, with whom she lived.

She was gathering the trash liner from the waste basket beside this nameless person’s desk, ready to insert a fresh one, when the lights in the office went out, casting her into darkness.

The only light was that beyond the window...and this was muddy, murky, evening’s mantle having descended in earnest. She heard rain beating down, drumming hard against the glass like dozens of tapping fingers. Had this begun before, and she hadn’t consciously noted it, or had the heavens opened up just now?

Dolores reached into a pocket of her blue company apron and pulled out her phone. She thumbed it on, swiped the screen and activated the flashlight feature. It made her feel a little less nervous. Then, she went to the window and looked down at the street, blurred like something insubstantial by the rivulets worming down the glass.

Sure enough, there was a blackout...as far as her eye could see. No lights even in those distant buildings bunched up against the dark horizon. A lightning flash only emphasized the city’s darkness by teasing it with a second of harsh illumination.

It was funny, though. One light source persisted. It was that digital billboard; it still glowed as brightly as before. Surely it wasn’t hooked up to a generator. Some kind of...solar power, she wondered? Distantly, she saw another bluish-glowing rectangle further back in the city. A bright speck even further than that, too. Were these two other digital billboards she’d never noticed out this building’s windows before, previously lost in the city’s variegated clutter of light?

But something had changed about the billboard across the street, she realized, as she allowed her gaze to rest upon it.

The billboard was not entirely unaffected by the storm’s power outage, after all. The image jittered, threatened to scramble...would pixelate into blocks of colored light before becoming more coherent again. The gigantic face of presidential candidate Ron Leeway was smeared sideways, like a fresh oil painting someone had cruelly dragged a rag across. His mouth seemed to gape wide in a black maw, quivering at its edges. One eye was a similar, trembling black orifice, while the other eye continued to glare pompously, with a scornful clarity. And then, there were those scrolling words...

The words in blocky red, white, and blue letters were scrolling down, down, down so rapidly it would be hard to make sense of them. And the yellow words scrolling horizontally across the bottom of the great screen were jumpy and full of gaps. Dolores read: “Ded... the unborn... Amen...Dedicated to keeping ...YOU!”

A sharp bang made her jump – the quick hard crush of metal. A car horn went off, reminding her of that trumpet sound that had preceded the storm. Someone started screaming. An accident, not far off.

Dolores turned from the window, focused on the phone in her hand, thumbed in Elina’s number. She understood Elina wouldn’t know any more about the blackout than she did...she just wanted to hear another person’s voice. She was done with solitude for this night.

Elina’s cell rang, rang, until it went to voicemail. Dolores left a message in Spanish, asking Elina to call her back. She told Elina she was on the fourth floor, and then felt stupid for it. Of course she was on the fourth floor. She was always on this building’s fourth floor.

She next called Jasper, their boss, to tell him they were stranded in the dark at this office building, for whatever good that would do. From the look of things outside, he’d be able to deduce that on his own. In any case, again, his phone rang until it went to voicemail.

Dolores shone her phone’s light ahead of her, went to the door she had left open when she’d come in here, looked out into the carpeted hallway. In either direction, her light didn’t reach to the hallway’s end, so that it appeared like an endless tunnel. Rather than being situated on the fourth floor, it gave the appearance of some subterranean passageway.

As she stood there in the office’s threshold her phone rang, startling her. She gave a little exclamation. Then, she saw it was Elina, and felt relief, and answered the call. They would meet somewhere...either on the second floor, Elina’s, or Elina would come up here to be with her, and...

“Dolores!” she heard Elina hiss. She was whispering. “Dolores! ¿Dónde estás?”

“Estoy aquí. Estoy en cuatro. ¿Estás bien?”

“Oh Dios! Oh Dios! Cierra la puerta! ¡No los dejes entrar!”

“Elina!” Dolores began, but the call was cut off.

She looked up sharply. Unless she beamed her light into it, the hallway was a pipeline full of nothingness. Beyond this doorway might as well be the cold vastness of outer space – sans stars. Even if she shined her phone in one direction, there was still that infinite blackness in the other direction...behind her.

“Cierra la puerta!” Elina had cried.

Dolores shut the office’s door, and pushed the button in the door’s handle to lock it. She took several steps back from the panel of pressed wood, gaping at it.

Outside, that blaring car horn finally ceased. But she still heard someone screaming. Maybe someone trapped in the wrecked car? The scream echoed weirdly between the city buildings...seemed to overlap itself.

Dolores called Ruben, on the first floor. Once more, the call went to voicemail. She left a message in Spanish, asking him if he was all right...if he knew what was going on...if he would go up to floor two and see if Elina was okay. She always spoke to her coworkers in their shared tongue, though she knew that didn’t help enhance her English skills. Not that she didn’t do well enough in that regard; better than any of them except for Jasper. Once, she had been in a department store checkout line with her niece Alejandra and they’d been conversing in Spanish, laughing, maybe a little too loudly in one of life’s stolen moments of happiness. The woman behind them, overhanging her motorized shopping cart, tattoos stretched across her limbs, snapped, “If you can’t speak the language you should get the hell out of this country.”

Alejandra, who was even more adept at English than she was Spanish, looked around and said to the woman, “If you speak Native American, then I’ll accept your criticism.”

“Ron Leeway is gonna ship all your asses back to Mexico,” the woman on the scooter said. “So you can stop stealing our goddamned jobs.”

Alejandra had replied, “Hey, you’re welcome to go to California and harvest lettuce all day, any time you want...no one’s stopping you.”

“Aw, fuuuck you!” the woman had growled.

Funny thing, remembering this incident now. Dolores figured it was that billboard outside.

She called Manuelo on the floor below her. She was almost surprised when he answered.

“Dolores!” he babbled breathlessly, almost as if he’d been babbling before he’d even picked up. “¡No mires por las ventanas! ¡No mires por las ventanas!”

She wanted to tell him she had already looked through the windows, but it was too late – the call was cut off. By him, or through some other influence? Dolores wondered if it was possible for the power outage to affect cell phone reception. But why had he sounded so desperate? Elina, too?

Perversely, Manuelo’s warning only caused Dolores to turn back to face the office’s wall-length window...and walk to it. As she neared it, that multiply-echoing scream increased in volume, and just as she reached the glass she understood what accounted for its overlapping quality. It wasn’t one wailing voice she was hearing, but a chorus of screaming. Women. Men. Children. Near...far...throughout the city. Even emergency vehicle sirens, adding to it. An almost cohesive layer of aural terror, or despair, stretching off to the horizon – so blackened now, as if charred by the lightning, that she could no longer make out where the buildings crowded against the sky. Not without lights. And without lights, she couldn’t see the screaming people. Were they inside these buildings? Out in the streets? Both, she thought.

From somewhere out there, she heard several gunshots.

“Terrorists,” Dolores said aloud, her voice close against the pane. In the glare of her phone’s flashlight, all she could see was her own reflected face, rippling with the rain flowing down the glass, as if she watched a wax effigy of herself melting. Then she thought: if she could see herself, others out there might see her up here, too. Dangerous others. These terrorists she suspected. Was that what Manuelo had meant, when he’d warned her not to look out the windows? Though reluctant to turn off her only source of light even for a minute, Dolores swiped her phone’s screen, touched the flashlight icon. She was swallowed in the room’s darkness.

Now, the only light in the world appeared to be that billboard across the street – and those others, apparently, scattered in the distance. Even the lightning was gone.

But the glowing rectangle in the middle distance was sputtering...then it went out entirely. Maybe these billboards weren’t going to resist the blackout much longer. For the one across the street was exhibiting even greater distortions than she’d witnessed before.

If her reflection had made it look like her face was melting, so too did Ron Leeway’s visage appear to be coming undone. Like spreading ink, fizzing black pixels ran down from that weirdly gaping mouth, that skull socket eye. The red, white, and blue downward-scrolling text had jammed to a juddering halt, but the letters were so deformed they looked to belong to another alphabet, some letters even appearing backwards or upside-down. The same with the broken yellow text that had run across the bottom of the screen, having also frozen in place...though jittering there, like a VHS tape on pause.

Only Leeway’s face was mobile, continuing to drip down, losing its shape gradually, as though a mask of dead flesh was sloughing away. And yet, that one clear eye still glared out of the chaos. Seemed to stare right across the street, right through the window, seeing Dolores even though she had turned off her flashlight to hide herself.

Too late, she thought.

That blue speck further in the distance, most likely another digital billboard – another campaign advertisement for Leeway – blinked into darkness.

When she hadn’t been looking out the window, had the billboard been struck by lightning? Was it the damaging effect of the rain pounding the screen that dragged Leeway’s face down in rubbery waves of flesh-colored pixels? The rain, compromising its electrical system, that caused a sudden flash of sparks to burst outwards from the center of the screen? And then, as Dolores watched in dazed incomprehension, the whole billboard surface gave way.

All the pixels seemed to dislodge at once, like small colored tiles blasted from a mosaic. A shower of colored light, a waterfall crashing toward the street.

In that descending wash of light, Dolores saw something she hadn’t been able to see before, for all the darkness.

A tight cluster of people – she couldn’t guess how many there were – had gathered directly under the billboard, at the base of its trunk-like pole. They faced upwards toward it. Their arms were lifted toward it. They appeared to be a mix of men and women...all reaching for that falling light.

And then it was upon them.

There was a loud thump behind her, where the room was so dark that – when she whirled toward the sound – she couldn’t make out any of the office’s contours or boundaries whatsoever. Couldn’t see where the door was.

But she could hear the door handle give a little jiggle, as someone grasped it, only to find the door locked.

It might be Elina, come to find her! Manuelo. Ruben...

Yet Dolores held her breath. Didn’t shift even so small a muscle as a blinking eyelid. She watched the void before her, and listened as the handle was tried again. And then...a sense, rather than a sound, of whoever the person was creeping away along the carpeted hallway beyond.

Behind her, out the window, that blanketing fog of merged screaming throughout the city. The sirens. A car alarm going off, adding its whoop to the mix. Another bark of gunfire; this one sounded automatic.

When again Dolores turned to look through the window, she expected to see that with the extinguishment of the billboards the city had been plunged into complete darkness.

Not quite complete. It was just that the light of the billboard – and other billboards throughout the city? – had been transferred.

In the street below, she saw several figures sprinting in different directions...scattering. She must have missed seeing more of their kind dispersing, when she’d turned away to listen to the door. She had no doubt that these were some of the people who had been reaching for the deluge of falling light.

Because these darting figures were coated in it, like luminous paint. They glowed with it. It adhered to them, head to foot. Sparkling, static-shot, brightly-colored light. Maybe it didn’t just coat them. Maybe they were now formed of that terrible light inside, too. Their faces were made of that light. Their eyes.

They didn’t illuminate too much of the area around them, but enough for Dolores to see a woman who was trying to flee from the figure that pursued her...a moment before the light being leapt with unnatural agility, like a leopard, and flung its arms around her. They went down together, the figure of light straddling the woman’s back. From up here, Dolores couldn’t make out what the light being was doing to the person beneath it, but she believed she heard the city’s screaming ratchet up just another tick more.

“Oh God, no...no, no, no,” Dolores said, in English. She trembled hard all over, as if instead of her phone biting into her hand she had grabbed hold of a power line.

Her voice couldn’t possibly have been heard down there, through the glass besides...not with her way up here on the fourth floor. And surely her face couldn’t be discerned up here, in the uniform blackness of this room. And yet, another of the running light beings had suddenly come to a stop down there, and lifted its faceless head as if to gaze directly up at her.

It wasn’t faceless after all. Its face consisted of one pixelated eye, so large it wrapped all around the being’s head. An eye glaring with scornful intensity. An eye that Dolores recognized.

She spun away from the window, her intention to get to the far side of the room, out of view, but in so doing she bashed her hip against the side of the desk. She bit back an exclamation of surprise and pain. She used one wildly swiping hand to feel her way ahead, reawakened her phone with the other. She activated the flashlight again, but kept it pointed away from the window. It revealed the door to her, and she put her free hand on its handle, but hesitated – reluctant to venture out into the hallway, where only minutes ago there had been another hand on the corresponding handle. In that moment of hesitation, she glanced back toward the wall-length plate glass window.

The light being had crawled up the face of the building, somehow...had clambered spider-like up to the fourth storey...and it clung outside the window with one hand and its feet. It thumped the palm of its other hand against the glass. Thumped it again. Its cyclops eye blazed in at her, sparking with static. She saw large yellow letters spelling out YOU! scroll across its chest from left to right. The letters wrapped around its torso, came back around again in an ongoing loop.

Dolores would take her chances with the hallway.

Because it was her responsibility, too, to clean the fourth floor restrooms and break room, her cleaning cart had a mop bucket attached to one side. Dolores jerked the mop out of this sudsy bucket, and leaned it against the wall beside the door. She stomped the middle of the handle with all her weight. The handle splintered, bent into an angle. A second stomp of her foot broke the mop in two. She picked up the half without the mop head, a kind of short spear. Only then did she unlock the door, and open it a little to peek out, shining her flashlight through the crack. Behind her, that palm kept slamming against the glass.

In one direction, then the other, she spied nothing out there.

The window banged more loudly behind her. She chanced a look. The light being was using the heel of its fist, now, to pound the glass. Its single eye never blinked.

Dolores plunged out into the hallway, dragged the door shut after her. Then, she started moving hurriedly in the left-hand direction, toward the stairwell there. She knew the elevator nearby it wouldn’t be working.

As she walked briskly toward the end of the hallway, and the stairwell, she wondered if it was really wise to descend. The street was where the majority of those things were. Even if she were to descend only a floor or two, in search of her friends, the light beings might be ascending at the same time. Why shorten the distance between them?

Just as she thought this, she heard the stairwell door squeal open directly ahead of her.

She immediately veered to the left, opened the office door nearest to her.

Ahead, she saw a faint glow cast into the hallway from the open stairwell door. Then she saw the arm that was pushing the door open...an arm made of restless light.

She ducked inside the office, closed the door as quietly as she could, and locked it.

She faced the flashlight away from the door, lest its beam show under it, went down on hands and knees and crawled toward the desk in here. She scurried under it, like an animal into its burrow to escape a predator. Once seated in this tight cave, her knees up close to her chest, she switched off the phone’s flashlight and huddled in complete darkness. Clutched harder the broken spear in her fist.

Sure enough...only a minute later, she heard someone try turning the door handle. The person, the thing, on the other side put more force into it...rattled the handle harder.

Yet after that second attempt, no more sounds of the door handle being tested. Had the thing moved on to further explore the fourth floor, or was it still out there, lurking quietly, waiting for her to let her guard down and emerge?

She had no intention of budging from where she hid. Not just yet.

Dolores was afraid to close her eyes, even though that couldn’t possibly make the world any darker. She felt tears winding down to her jawline. She hadn’t been aware that she was crying. She hadn’t had time to notice it.

At some point, however, she must have shut her eyes without being conscious of doing so, because she dreamed. She dreamed of Oaxaca. She was twelve again, eagerly waiting while a street vendor grilled elote for her – corn on the cob that would be slathered in mayonnaise, sprinkled with cheese, drizzled with lime juice. While she watched him char the corn, Dolores heard the wonderful ungainly clamor of a banda coming this way, and looked around excitedly, a grin spreading upon her face. It was as though she could recognize the particular voice of one of the trumpets – the trumpet played by her older brother, Benito. She couldn’t see the players yet, but the music lumbered closer...closer...

A loud splutter of sound from another direction! Startled but delighted, recognizing this sound too, Dolores whirled to see a man dancing wildly in the street, spinning and cavorting, carrying upon his back an object made from wire and paper: a torito, a “little bull,” with whirling wheels like miniature galaxies that shot off cascades of fireworks. The fiery light exploded from him in all directions, dazzling her eyes. The fireworks crackled like gunfire, whistled like flying missiles. Dolores had always loved such displays, but watching this man leap and blaze as if he had self-immolated caused her to back away a few steps, warily, the grin withering on her face. In backing away, her heel caught on something and she fell backwards...landed on her rear with a hard jolt.

Dolores opened her eyes to an inky emptiness, but she heard sputters of gunfire, and a shrill chorus of screaming like the whistling of many, many fireworks.

For a terrifying moment she thought she was twenty-three, still married, back in Oaxaca. During the chaotic, bullet-riddled teacher’s strike of October, 2006...which had resulted in the murder of twenty-six protestors. Her heart cringed inside her, like an animal hiding in its burrow from a predator.

But within only a second or two, she remembered she was thirty-five now. She remembered where she was. What was happening – as much as she understood it. And she then wished she was back in Oaxaca, bloody teacher’s strike or no. She wished she had never left home.

Stiff and aching, she crawled out from under the desk as soundlessly as she could, straightened creakily, and turned toward the office’s window. To her surprise, she saw that the city glowed out there. Had the lights come back on? Was it dawn, the sun coming up? For how long had she been asleep?

Cautiously she moved to the window but kept to one side of it, wondering if she should risk drawing down the single wide shade to protect herself from being spotted by anyone below. There was the risk, though, that the very action of pulling the shade down might call attention to herself.

She leaned forward tentatively, around the edge of the window, to look outside. By now she could already tell this ambient light wasn’t coming from the city’s buildings; they still loomed solidly black. The odd luminosity came from down at street level.

The street was thronged with people, as if in some kind of festival. Some of them carried assault rifles, and they fired bursts into the air. It was seeing this that made Dolores realize the screaming she was hearing was no longer a cacophony of fear and pain. The screaming was like the cheering of a crowd at a sports game. It was celebratory.

Every person she saw down there in that dense crowd, a crowd that filled the street to the limits of her vision, glowed with a poisonous, contagious, uncanny radiance. The rain had stopped, finally, but puddles lay everywhere, reflecting all this bizarre living light.

Dolores told herself she couldn’t possibly be the only one who had not been polluted by this radiation. There had to be others – hopefully her friends on the floors below, among them – who had taken shelter. Still, looking out upon this horde, she felt her little broken stick of a spear was a ridiculous symbol of resistance.

She retreated from the window and the mad joyful screaming of the light beings. Crouching down under the desk again, afraid to use her voice lest she alert something out in the hallway, Dolores sent a text to Elina. Then to Jasper, Ruben, Manuelo, and Alejandra – the daughter of Benito, her trumpet-playing brother, who had died of a heart attack at only forty-seven, here in this country he had come to before her. He had welcomed her to join him here. To start a new life full of fresh possibilities.

She told them all, in her texts, to sit tight. To wait this out. Hopefully, the coming of the sun would change this. Would wash all this toxic light away.

All they could do was wait, and hope.

The End

Packages From India

By

R.J. Ren

The first time I saw my brother I thought he was dead.

I was nine and more nervous than I had ever been. We were standing on the docks at Tilbury, among a throng of people trailing the length of a huge steamer. Twelve years older than me and more like a second mother than a sister, Izzy held my hand. Passengers were already disembarking and we were both eagerly waiting for Jess to appear. Mother was too sick to travel and when Izzy’s beau, Julian, had been unable to arrange a day’s leave I had begged to go to Essex in his stead. It was May 1920; the war had been over for almost two years and my brother, Jess, twenty-seven years my senior, was finally coming home. He had lived in India longer than I had been alive; had already been stationed there when war broke out and had remained during the entirety of those horrible years. Until that day, the only time I had seen his face was in the single photograph Mother possessed of him. It showed him standing proud, clad in army livery with a rifle resting upon one shoulder as he posed over the prone body of an Asiatic lion. There wasn’t a day that went by when Mother or Izzy didn’t regale me with tales of his exploits. I had read every one of his letters. He was a war hero. He was my hero.

“There he is, Peter.” Izzy pointed towards the gangplank.

Three men shambled down the wooden walkway from the steamer to the dock. Only one of them even remotely resembled the man in Mother’s photo, and so little I thought maybe Izzy was mistaken. He was bone-grey and corpse-thin, hanging between the other two men, an arm around each.

“Has he been drinking?” I asked.

Izzy frowned. The excitement written upon her face turned to worry.

“Jess!” she cried, pulling me through the crowd. “What’s happened?” she demanded, as the other two men helped my brother onto dry land.

His face was gaunt: eyes sunken, the whites, yellow as butter. I remember thinking he must have died on the boat. Then, his faded lips parted, making way for a swollen orange tongue. He spoke in a voice like tired granite.

“I’m fine, sis. A cold. I’ll be right in a day or three.”

Izzy glared at Jess’s companions, who exchanged an anxious glance over his head. Jess coughed, as though warning them not to speak.

“A cold,” he repeated. “I’ll be fine.”

My sister scowled. “Let’s just get you home. Mother’s eager to see you.”

“No!”

“No?”

“Not like this. It’ll only worry her. I have rooms waiting. Tell her the boat was delayed. Three weeks. I’ll be fine to see her by then.”

“She’s sick, Jess.”

“So am I. Three weeks,” he said.

“Two.”

My brother smiled, the expression painful on his ashen face. “It’s good to see you, Izz.”

“You too, Jess.”

He looked to where I stood, partially hidden behind my sister. “Surely this can’t be little Pete?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“Enough of that,” he said kindly. “We’re brothers, Pete. Call me Jess.”

“You need to see a doctor,” said Izzy.

“Already have.”

“And?”

“There’s an arrangement.”

“An arrangement?”

“A remedy.”

Her eyes roamed over him. “It’s not working.”

The sound he made was unpleasant, a chuckle of sorts. “You should have seen me before we left India.”

“I’m glad I didn’t.”

“Don’t worry, sis, three weeks and I’ll be fighting fit. Promise.”

“Two!” she reminded him.

“Okay… you win. Two.”

***

True to his word, Jess came to see Mother in her sick bed just two weeks later. He looked better, more like the man in Mother’s photograph. Over the coming months, we saw him frequently and he seemed to grow stronger every day. Before long, he acquired a property out of town: ten acres of woodland and, hidden among the trees, the largest house I had ever seen. He christened it Little Delhi. A month after moving in, he invited Mother, Izzy and me to stay for Easter and arranged for a car to fetch us. The driver stopped in front of two towering iron gates.

“Well,” said Mother, “whatever he was doing in India certainly paid off.”

The gates clanged and began to move apart, disappearing behind the large stone walls stretching into thick woodland either side of the approach, from somewhere behind them, a mechanical clanking filled the air.

A short journey along a winding gravel driveway and the car stopped again, this time on a forecourt in front of the large house. The driver opened the door and I shuffled out, followed by Izzy.

“Paid off, indeed,” said Mother, appreciating the grandeur and tranquillity of Jess’s new home as Izzy manoeuvred her to her feet.

She was twig frail and, to tell the truth, Izzy hadn’t wanted us to come. But Mother had insisted and, somewhat selfishly, I was glad. I had been itching to see Jess’s new home ever since he’d told us about it, and now my eyes roamed wide over the front of the huge building. It was built from large grey stones, not red bricks like ours. I counted the windows. Eight on the bottom floor, not including the two huge, green doors at the top of the concrete steps, and twelve above. I was trying to work out how many rooms that might amount to when Jess appeared, walking from behind the house, leads in hand, with two enormous animals in tow. White-furred and black-eyed, their backs brushed his elbows as they flanked him. Their long tails curled forward to touch their spines – dogs, but like none I had ever seen. They did not bark when they saw us. They didn’t even pull. He stopped walking and with a single word from him – in a language I took to be Hindi – one, the larger of the two, sat at his feet. He glanced at the smaller dog, tugged lightly on its lead, and repeated the word. The dog sat and both became still as marble.

“Holy Christ!” said Mother, moving so Izzy was between her and the monstrous animals.

Jess beamed at our horror-stricken faces. “They’re quite harmless.”

“What are they?” said Mother.

“Just out of quarantine,” he said, placing a hand on each of their heads. “Meet Daisy and Florence. They’re mine, from India.”

“That’s nice,” said Izzy, “but what are they?”

Jess scratched the two enormous dogs between their ears. “Bully Kutta. An ancient breed, descended from the mythical Crocotta, if you believe in that sort of thing. Their lineage can be traced all the way back to Akbar the Great. There’s no better guard or gun dog in the world.”

“Are they safe?”

“I’ve had them from pups, trained them myself.” He knelt and ruffled their ears. “You’re my good girls, aren’t you?”

“Are they house-trained?” asked Mother.

Jess smiled. “While we have company, they spend their days in the tennis court out back. They have the run of the grounds at night, though. So, I’m afraid there’ll be no more late-night rendezvous with that young stallion of yours, Izz.”

Mother tutted dismissively and Jess’s smile widened into a grin as Izzy flushed pink.

“Can we go inside?” said Mother. “I could do with a sit-down and something sweet.”

“Of course,” said Jess, his expression switching from one of amusement to that of worry. “Christophe mentioned something about cake this morning. I’m sure we could all manage a slice.”

“Christophe?” said Izzy.

“My cook. Pilfered him from a little bakery in town in Bath. Good chap; knows his way around a kitchen. Old as the hills, but fantastic with pastry.”

“And a nice cup of tea?” said Mother.

“Of course,” said Jess. “Let me put these two back and I’ll show you inside.”

***

We’d been at Little Delhi for a week when the package arrived. It was early, before breakfast. Jess was out with the dogs, Izzy, taking a bath, and Mother, still in bed. She’d taken a turn for the worse and Jess had insisted we stay until she was well enough to travel. I was exploring the old house when the bell in the hallway rang. When Jess had first shown us around the house. I’d asked about the gates and he had pointed to the now ringing bell.

“The chap who used to live here was some kind of inventor. I had most of his contraptions removed when I bought the place, but this I liked. There’s a pressure plate just before the gates. When a vehicle drives over it, the bell rings.” Grinning like a schoolboy, he led me to a longcase clock by the front doors. Inside, behind the gleaming brass pendulum, was a lever. “There’s two cables buried under the driveway,” he said. “One goes to the bell, the other to this lever. When pulled, it frees a mechanism of weights and pulleys that open and close the gates.”

Knowing I was not allowed to work the lever without my brother’s say-so, I watched the bell jingle on its spring, wondering what to do. The driveway wasn’t long, the bulk of my brother’s acreage being behind the house. If I ran, I could be there and back before anyone knew I was gone. I reached the gates just as a large mail van was reversing. Flushed and puffing as I was, the postman saw me, hit the brakes and leaned out the window.

“Alright, lad?”

“Sorry, mister,” I managed between gasps. “My brother’s with the dogs. I’m not allowed to work the gates on my own.”

The postman nodded and stepped down from the van; he was holding a package about the size of a shoe box – wooden and covered in many different coloured stamps.

“Got Mr Tyne’s special delivery.”

“Special delivery?” I asked.

“Once a month, like clockwork.” He lifted his chin as if to convey the importance of his statement. “Delivered them to Mr Tyne back in town and he asked for me particular like when he moved out here.”

“I can take it,” I said, eyeing the colourful box.

He sucked his lips. “And who might you be, young sir?”

“His brother.”

The postman smiled as he handed the package through the gate.

The van pulled away and I was inspecting the colourful box, wondering what might be inside, when Daisy and Florence came bounding towards me from the woods, teeth bared and baying for blood. I screamed, threw the package at them and scrambled up the gates. An ear-splitting whistle cut the air. The dogs fell silent. Daisy dropped to her belly and rested the great loaf of her head upon leonine paws. Florence slowed, but Jess was forced to whistle a second time before she followed her mother’s example.

“What the hell are you playing at?” Jess was furious. “Get down from there!”

I didn’t want to. The dogs were quiet, but my brother looked like he might bite my head off all on his own. Then, his eyes widened and his face drained of colour.

“I’ll have that damn postman’s hide!” He scrambled for the package; its lid had come ajar when I’d thrown it to the ground. He tore it the rest of the way free to look inside. Relief softened his features and he held the package close to his chest.

“What is it?” I asked him once we had made friends again. We were walking back to the house. The dogs, out of sight, nosing through woodlands either side of the driveway. He didn’t answer. I looked up at him.

“Medicine,” he said, eventually.

“What kind?”

“The kind that keeps a person alive, Peter.”

“The postman said it comes every month.”

“Did he…?”

“Could it help Mother?”

He stopped walking and knelt to face me.

“Listen, Pete.”

I nodded.

“Mother’s very sick.”

“I know.”

“No,” he said, “you don’t. She’s very sick, so sick that nothing’s going to make her well.”

“Nothing?” I said, glancing at the package.

He held it possessively to his chest. “Nothing.”

Silent tears rolled down my cheeks as we made our way to breakfast.

***

Not long after the funeral, Julian proposed to Izzy. They wed and he moved into our house. I moved in with Jess shortly after. He arranged for me to attend a boys’ school; it was close enough to Little Delhi that I was able to visit most weekends. Terms began and finished, birthdays came and went, and the years rolled by. Izzy and Julian started a family of their own: two children, a boy and a girl. But we made a point of gathering as a family every Christmas, as Mother would have liked. I missed her very much, we all did. But I had Jess and Izzy, and although I didn’t get to see as much of them as I would have liked, we were a family, and a happy one. Until, that is, the last Christmas we all spent together…

***

It was morning; Izzy’s little ones had the whole house awake before dawn. We exchanged gifts, ate breakfast then parted ways – Jess and I leaving Izzy, Julian and the children to get ready for the day’s festivities, while we took the dogs for their morning jaunt around Little Delhi.

“Daisy’s looking stiff,” I said.

“She’s only a few months younger than you, Peter. Fifteen’s old for a Kutta. Florence isn’t far behind; she’ll be ten come April.”

“How long do they live?”

“Depends,” he said.

“On what?”

“How they’re kept, how they’re bred…”

The dogs were roaming the woods. We followed behind, Jess with his trusty shotgun slung over one shoulder in case we strayed upon an unwitting pheasant. Me with a stick I’d found along the way. I had never been fond of his dogs. Nobody but him liked them much. They were too big. Too unpredictable. Fine, when Jess was around. But the moment he was out of sight, they had a way of looking at you, of making you feel like a freshly glazed ham waiting to be carved.

“Will you arrange for another when the time comes?” I asked.

“Not likely,” he said. “I’ve made enquiries, but there are only four other Kutta in the whole country and they’re all bitches. Besides, Daisy is too old and Florence… well, she isn’t for breeding.”

“Why not?”

“The only other dog she’s ever tolerated is Daisy. Wouldn’t be safe.”

We followed the dogs out of the woods and found ourselves by the front gates. I gave him a curious look.

“Post,” he said, glancing at his pocket watch.

“On Christmas day?”

He grunted.

“Your mysterious packages?” I guessed.

“Can’t be without them,” he said. “It’s a month to the day since the last delivery. I have an arrangement with the post office.”

“Couldn’t you have had two delivered last month?”

He shook his head. “Wouldn’t do. It takes almost a month to arrive and its potency dwindles rapidly thereafter.”

“Can’t you have it made closer to home?”

“I’ve looked into it,” he said. “Gave a few doses to a chemist friend of mine, one of the best in the country, hoping he could replicate it. Almost died all over again and to top it off, he failed to identify over half of the ingredients in the blasted stuff.”

Jess had never told any of us what had happened to him in India. Had made me promise never to ask. But I found myself doing so nonetheless.

“What happened out there, Jess?”

His brows furrowed and his skin became as grave as the day I had met him. For an instant, I thought he was, finally, going to tell. But the sound of an approaching engine burst our little bubble. Colour returned to his cheeks and his attention was drawn back to the gates. A van trundled towards us and Jess whistled for the dogs to heal. The van stopped, the postman raised a hand in greeting as he opened the door and stepped out.

“Christmas, Mr Tyne.”

Jess inclined his head. “Merry Christmas, Jack.”

“Christmas, young sir.”

“Season’s greetings, Jack.”

Jack glanced nervously at the dogs. “Nice of you to come and meet me.”

“Least we could do,” I said, glancing to Jess. “It’s Christmas, after all.”

I saw my brother frown as a small brown shape darted from out of the scrub beside the post van.

“What the devil!” Jack fumbled Jess’s package as a rabbit bounced between his legs. It dived through the gates towards us and, finding itself nose to nose with Florence, froze in terror. A low growl rolled from the huge dog’s chest. Daisy rose and my brother’s voice cracked like a whip. “DOWN!”

Daisy dropped to her belly. Florence rocked forward, baring her teeth.

“Flo…” Jess warned.

At the sound of my brother’s voice, the rabbit twitched, darted into the tress and Florence tore after it.

“Leave!” Jess bellowed. “Damn dog. Can’t have her tearing about the place with Izzy’s kids around, she’ll never forgive me. Pete, take Daisy back to the tennis court and the package to my study.”

Then he was gone. Swallowed by the woods, in the direction Florence had chased the rabbit. Abandoning my stick, I approached Daisy, lead in hand. She still sat where Jess had told her.

“Come, Daisy,” I said tentatively. The large white dog rolled her watery eyes in my direction. I took a step closer.

“Careful, lad,” said Jack from the safety of the gates.

I lifted my chin. “Daisy!” I said, trying to mimic my brother’s bassy inflection. This time she moved her whole head towards me. “Come!”

She stood, walked over and sat less than a foot away, whomped her thick trunk of a tail hard upon the ground. Slowly, I reached for her collar and fastened the lead about her neck. “Good girl.”

“Them dogs en’t right,” said Jack.

He held the package between the bars, drawing Daisy’s attention.

“Best leave it on the ground, Jack.”

“Right you are.”

“Merry Christmas,” I said.

“You too, lad. Good Luck.”

***

I was almost back to the house when the curiosity of years finally got the better of me. We were on a stretch of the driveway that curved. I couldn’t see the gates behind us or the house ahead.

“Come,” I said, tugging firmly on Daisy’s lead, and she walked me into a thicket of cold-blackened trees.

The package was nailed shut. Looping the handle of Daisy’s lead about the stub of a broken branch, I unfolded my pocketknife. A memory came to me: a time not long after I had come to live at Little Delhi, when Jess had found me in his study examining that month’s package, the look of desperation and rage upon his face as he snatched it from my young fingers, the promise he had forced from my trembling lips… What I was about to do was wrong. The only secret he’d ever insisted upon keeping. If he found out, he would never trust me again. But I needed to know what was in the damn box! I pried the lid free and found an oddly shaped bundle, wrapped in hessian and bound with twine, all wedged in a tightly packed cushion of sawdust. Tucked behind the twine was a note. I teased it free and unfolded it:

To my darling J

As promised

Yours always R.

That’s when she attacked. Upon me in a fury of tooth and claw, tearing at my hands, Daisy knocked me to the ground. I remember the stifling smog of her breath, hot, damp, and meaty. Choking for air, I let go of the package, lifted my arms to protect my face and began to roll. Her furious growls, snapping behind me, were cut short as her lead twanged taut. I scuttled away and collided with a tree, knocking the wind from my lungs. Trying to breathe, I saw her interest turn from me to the package. Her nose disappeared inside the open box. I tried to cry out, to command her to stop, but my lungs refused to work. A crunching, gushing sound reached my ears and an exotic smell flooded the air – heavy and thick. A strange mewing emanated from Daisy’s chest and the monstrous dog’s hackles stood tall as her curled tail grew rigid. She lifted her head, revealing something black and fudge-like between her teeth. She looked to the sky, slapped her jaws until whatever had been in Jess’s package was gone. She rounded on me: maw gaping, drooling foam, teeth glistening and coated in a strangely iridescent and oily substance. Her wide, bloodshot eyes met mine. The madness in them was unmistakable. My brother’s dogs were creatures teetering on the edge of sanity at the best of times, but whatever had been in the package had kicked Daisy off the ledge. I rose slowly to my feet and backed away.

“Good girl…”

She threw back her head and howled.

I ran.

The whip-crack of her lead sounded behind me as she once more found its limit, followed by the creak of splintering wood.

“Pete!”

Risking a glance over my shoulder, I saw Jess standing beyond Daisy’s charging form, Florence by his side. He pointed his shotgun to the sky and fire erupted from its barrel. The sound was deafening. I ducked. Daisy faltered, rolled, came up again, low and snarling. She spun to him. He fired a second time. She threw herself into the trees and was gone.

I was breathing too hard. Head floating. Ground spinning. The forest fell away and faded to black. I heard hurried footsteps and the queasy sound of my name being called from some far distant place…

***

“He’s coming to.”

My eyes were heavy, the room too bright. Izzy was sitting beside me, pressing a damp cloth to my head. I groaned, tried to rise. She guided me back to the sofa, removed the cloth and held a glass of water to my lips.

“Drink this.”

I sipped. My throat was dry, the water cool. “What happened?”

We were in the living room. The children were playing by the fire. Julian sat in an armchair opposite.

“We don’t know,” he said. “Jess, charged in with you over his shoulder, folded you onto the sofa, jabbering something about a package and the dogs and…”

I sat up sharply. Izzy tried pushing me back, but I resisted. “Where is he?”

“We don’t know,” she said. “He told us to look after you and for nobody to leave the house. What’s going on, Pete?”

“It’s Daisy, she…” I wasn’t sure how much to tell them. “It’s my fault.”

“What is?”

“I did something I shouldn’t have and she turned on me.”

“Inbred demons!” Izzy spat. “I hate them!”

“Come now, Izz,” said Julian. “They’re not all bad.”

“I hate them, Julian.”

“Jess will put it right, Izz.”

“No,” she said, “he won’t. You don’t know him like I do, Julian. They’re like children to him. We should leave.”

“It’s Christmas, darling!”

“Fuck Christmas! If those dogs aren’t dead by lunchtime, I’m taking the children, with or without...”

A barrage of snarls cut Izzy short and the three of us scrambled to the window. Jess was on the gravel forecourt, a pistol in place of his shotgun. He was screaming at the dogs as they wrestled – standing on their hind legs, jaws locked in combat. He thrust himself between them, attempted to prise their maws apart. Daisy batted him away with a swipe of one massive paw. He fell to the ground and the gun roared.

“The children can’t be here,” said Izzy, sweeping them into her arms and out the room.

Florence was in a bad way. Her flanks were torn and streaming – her white coat, stained red. Daisy was wheezing like a train; eyes, bloodshot and bulging, mouth foaming and tinged pink with her daughter’s blood, but seemed otherwise unharmed. On his knees now, Jess begged for them to stop. He lifted the gun and sighted along its short barrel. Daisy flung her head in a wrecking sweep, knocking Florence to the ground. She pounced. Jess’s gun tracked her through the air; she landed astride her daughter with a triumphant shriek, sinking fever-mad teeth deep into the younger dog’s throat.

The gun roared again.

Daisy tumbled across the gravel in a flailing cartwheel of legs and fur. Jess was already to his feet and running for Florence when Daisy slid to a halt and righted herself. He stopped, lingered for a moment on Florence’s motionless form, glanced at his gun, then to the house. Daisy seemed to understand what he was thinking and launched herself towards him. Jess fired blindly in her direction and sprinted towards the concrete steps. I peeled away from the window and made for the front doors. I jerked one open, Jess blurred past me and I slammed it shut again. We fell away as Daisy struck, shaking the doors in their frame.

Julian stood in the living room doorway. “The children are terrified. Izzy wants to leave. It’s Christmas, goddamn it!”

Ignoring our brother-in-law’s outburst, Jess fixed me with an apoplectic glare. My stomach grew weak upon seeing the hurt and betrayal behind his eye. I opened my mouth to speak.

“How could you,” he growled. “You’ve ruined me, do you know that? Florence is… and God only knows what it’s done to poor Daisy!”

She was scratching furiously at the front doors.

“Will they hold?” asked Julian.

“Until doomsday,” said Jess, still glaring at me.

My eyes stung with gathering tears. I tried to speak, but my throat was swollen with shame.

“Why?” he asked. “After Mother died, I gave you everything. Why couldn’t you leave me this one thing?”

“Is she rabid?” said Julian.

“No, she’s eaten something that was meant for me.”

“For you?”

“To be taken over the course of a month, not all in one go.”

The doors stopped rattling.

“She’s given up?” said Julian.

My brother’s eyes grew wide. “Christophe!”

***

The house was a veritable fortress, empty for the holidays except for us and the cook, hard at work preparing our festive meals. Christophe was old – the heat of a busy kitchen no longer agreed with him – and he’d got in the habit of wedging open the doors that led from the kitchen to the herb garden. Jess rushed past Julian into the living room. He smashed the glass front of the gun cabinet with the butt of his pistol and began throwing guns to the ground.

“What are you looking for?” said Julian.

“Bullets didn’t touch her. The stuff from India, it’s not what you might call natural, it’s healing her wounds faster than they can do her damage. But it won’t stop her from sleeping.” Jess turned to face us. He was holding a thin length of polished bamboo. “Taking that much all at once should have killed her,” he said while unlocking the munitions drawer below the cabinet. “The man I bought her from in India told me Bully Kutta are thought to be descended from Crocotta, a sort of mythical dog-wolf hybrid. Legend has it, they were enemy to man and beast and couldn’t be hurt by either.” He took a slender box from the drawer. “Maybe there’s some truth in the old story, after all.” He emptied the box onto the coffee table. Twelve long, feather-tipped sticks rolled out.

“What are those?” said Julian.

“Darts for this,” said Jess, raising the length of bamboo. “They’ve been dipped in Upas sap. Bullets won’t stop her, but these might at least slow her down.”

***

We heard the screams before we reached the kitchen.

“Christophe!”

Julian and I raced after Jess, through the corridors of the house and towards the escalating screams. The door leading to the kitchen was closed. Without slowing, Jess raised a foot and kicked it open. I recoiled at the scene within, the horror of it rolling over me in a wave of terror. The old man was on the floor, one arm in the raging dog’s mouth, the other flailing and holding a large cleaver. Fear had contorted his kind face into a hellish grotesque. He slashed wildly at the snarling animal bearing down upon him. Jess drew in a breath, placed the blowpipe to his lips and propelled a dart in to Daisy’s hackle-raised back.

Thwack!

She growled in defiance and clamped down harder on poor Christophe’s arm. The old man screamed as Daisy lifted him from the ground to worry him like a rat. Jess loaded another dart and blew once more.

Thwack!

The dog groaned, dropped the cook, and rounded on us. Jess loaded yet another dart and raised the pipe to his mouth.

“Please, girl,” he said through trembling lips. “Don’t make me do this.”

Daisy whined. Her wide eyes spun without focus.

“Stay!” he begged.

Her muscular shoulders bunched. She wavered and began to list. Daisy shook her head, howled and sprang towards us. The dart struck the base of her throat. Her eyes closed as she sailed through the air, hit the ground, and slid past us through the open doorway.

***

The car pulled up to the large iron gates I remembered so well from my childhood. I had been a young man, a boy not yet sixteen, when last I’d seen them. I frowned when the expected clink of the pressure plate didn’t sound. The car rolled to a halt.

“Driver?”

“Gates haven’t worked for years, sir,” said the shrivelled man in the driver’s seat. “All seized up, just like everything else round here.” He got out of the car and leaned on the heavy iron gates. They creaked and he puffed. I got out and helped him push.

The woodland on either side of the driveway looked much as I remembered as we drove the short journey from the gates to the house. The trees were thicker than I had seen them and yet it all seemed smaller somehow. I saw the stretch of trees where I had opened the package. The beginning of the end of our happy little family. The last Christmas we had spent together. The last time we had all been in one place. It all came rushing back. My sister – dead six years from the same cancerous affliction that had taken our mother – driving away with Julian and the children, vowing never to return. Christophe threatening to press charges. Me helping Jess to lock Daisy in the tennis court and dig Florence’s grave…

The car stopped on the gravel forecourt in front of the house. Except for the doors – which no longer bore the scars of Daisy’s frenzied claws – it looked exactly as it had the last time I’d seen it, twenty-seven years before.

A man I did not recognise came to greet me.

“Mr Tyne?”

I nodded.

“If you would be so good as to follow me, your brother rests within.”

I followed him through the house. He opened the living room door and gestured for me to enter. My brother was sixty-two years old, but it was a truly elderly man that sat by his fire. A small brown terrier rested upon his blanketed lap. A much larger dog lay at his slippered feet. The creature was unpleasantly familiar.

“You found a breeder after all?” I said, before the man at the door could announce me.

Jess turned in his seat. The small dog stood up and yapped. The large Bully Kutta on the floor opened its eyes.

“No,” said Jess.

He looked frailer, even than the day I had met him. Grey skin drooped from angled bone, white hair hung long and limp about stick-thin shoulders… the whites of his eyes were the colour of bile.

“Then what do you call that?” I said, pointing incredulously to the large dog at his feet.

“You don’t recognise her?”

“You can’t be serious!”

“Deathly,” he said.

“How?”

“You know how,” he said, turning back to the fire.

“Why?”

“I had nothing else. You saw to that. And because I was curious.”

I was disgusted; it must have shown.

“Who are you to judge me?” he said, stroking the little dog on his lap, cooing lovingly into its ear. “It was his fault after all, wasn’t it, Griffin? Of course it was. There’s a good boy.”

“Is that why you’ve called me here?” I asked. “To lay blame at my feet once more?”

Jess sighed. “Raagini is dead.”

“Who?”

“My wife.”

“When did you marry?”

“During the war.”

“Which?” I asked. The world had seen war a second time since we had last spoken. I had experienced the horrors that brought first hand. Had been lucky to survive, get married and have children of my own. Many I came to know and love during that time were not so lucky.

“Which do you think?”

“The first,” I said, realising he would have been excluded from the second because of his circumstances. “In India. Did Mother know?”

A pained expression further clouded his already greying features; he shook his head. “I wanted to surprise her. Marrying there was the only way her father would allow for her to travel with me to England. We had planned to have a Christian ceremony when we came home. But the world was at war and we had no way of knowing when it would end…”

“Why all the secrets, Jess?”

“We had children, Raagini and I.”

“You’re a father?”

“Was,” he said, staring into the flames. “They died.”

My stomach twisted at the thought of losing my own children.

“How?” I asked.

“Plague,” he said. “Danish was almost two. Lasya, just five months old.”

“I’m sorry.”

He made a small sound of acknowledgment but didn’t turn from the fire.

“This plague, is it what ails you?”

“No, Peter. What ails me is death himself.”

“I don’t follow?”

“I died in India, Peter. By rights, we should never have met.”

“You’re delirious,” I told him.

“No. I am tired.”

“You’re confused,” I said.

“After Danish and Lasya died, Raagini was unconsolable. She prayed to Dhumavati, begged that she give our children back to us…”

“Dhumavati?”

“A goddess of death, among other things. A crone worshiped by Hindus. Raagini became obsessed. Then, about a month after our children succumbed to the plague, I was shot whilst on a training exercise.” He tapped a crooked finger at a point on his chest just above his heart. “I was dead before anyone even knew I was down.”

I sat in the chair opposite him. The concern I was feeling for his mental wellbeing must have shown, because he chuckled weakly. The sound brought back more memories of our first meeting.

“You don’t have to believe me, little brother. What’s true is true, whether it is acknowledged or not.”

“Well,” I said. “You can’t blame me for finding all this a little farfetched.”

“Raagini refused to lose me as well. She made a pact with something she should not. Her soul for mine, her freedom for knowledge. When I woke in our bed, she was not the same woman I had fallen in love with. Whatever unnatural forces she had fallen prey to had made it so we could never be together. She told me I would live as long as I took the remedy, but India would not tolerate my presence and it would not allow her to leave.”

“How long do you have?” I asked, not knowing what else to say.

He shrugged. “A week… two? Your guess is as good as mine. Daisy withdraws more rapidly than I. When she is gone, no doubt I will follow.”

Daisy and Jess grew weaker with every passing day. In the moments between the agonies wrought upon him by his failing body, Jess spoke to me of his time in India. Told me all he had, for so long, made secret. I only wish he had found a way to tell me, to tell us all, sooner. Maybe things would have played out differently. I do not shirk my part in what befell our family, but neither do I accept full responsibility. I was little more than a child, after all, with the inquisitive mind that accompanies selfish youth. Daisy passed away five days after I arrived at Little Delhi. My brother was by her side and inconsolable when the time came. I buried her next to Florence. The little brown terrier sat in Jess’ lap, licking tears from his cheeks and whining for the loss of her friend as I did so. Death came for Jess three days later.

We found it within ourselves to forgive one another before the end, but nothing can replace the years lost, the Christmases missed. I loved my brother dearly and will always miss the life we could have shared.

He left me everything, Griffin included. I sold Little Delhi and gave half to Izzy’s children.

The little brown terrier, I gave to my daughter.

The End

Sacrifice the Night

By

Theresa Jacobs

Voices penetrated her sleep, and she rose through nothing to consciousness. Snuggled in her own divot, the blankets a cozy wrap of warmth, Tessa wondered what woke her.

Then it came again. Her husband’s voice uttering in the dark room.

Her brow furrowed in ire. She was brought closer to awake, which was not where she longed to be. Her body dipped lower to the right as Harold turned beside her.

“Voco daemones…” he said and continued muttering low enough that Tessa could only pick up syllables but no actual words. She groaned, annoyed at being woken over nonsense, and fisted her pillow up under her cheek. Think waves on the beach. Endless blue sky. Floating on my raft, the waves rocking up and down, up and down. She imagined serenity, blocking out her deepening anger at the intrusion to her slumber in the middle of the night.

Mellowed by the practiced meditation, her body felt weightless now, as though sailing away on the ocean. The cloudless sky in her mind faded into twilight and soon enough darkness. She rode the wave back to dreamland. As the first stage of sleep took hold, a chill caressed her arm. Moaning, she moved to slip her hand under the blanket and bring it up to her chin. Her fingers searched, finding nothing but air. She reached a little further, still clinging to the depth of her light sleep. A whistling wind rose, leaves rustled, and her entire body broke out in shivers.

Tessa jerked awake. Her eyes flew open, and with a gasp of confusion she pushed herself up. She was no longer nestled in her warm bed.

The bed was gone.

Harold was gone.

The entire house was gone.

She was outside, in a foreign woodland, in the dark, and on the hard ground.

“What the…?” She braced her arms across her chest as wind whistled through the trees and lifted the hair from her face. Looking up she could discern sooty fingerling silhouettes of barren branches that rubbed and clicked together against the night sky, singing an eerie piercing screech. The sky itself a crepuscular visage that housed neither stars, nor moon, yet light enough to discern her surroundings.  Bone dry leaves lifted in a welcoming, hushed dance, sending further chills up her spine at the hollowness of their song.

Harold’s voice echoed from far away. “Tolle hoc sacrificium, quod diximus introduxit coram te.”

“Harold?” Tessa called out, jumping to her feet she searched to find sight of him. From far off he continued to speak words she couldn’t understand.

“Harold, where are you?” She spun left and right and back again. But he was nowhere that she could see. “Where am I? Harold?” she yelled, and heart-pounding, paused to listen for a call back. But none came.

Wanting out of the woods—wherever that was she didn’t understand as there was no forest in the city—she stumbled forward. Her thin nighty did nothing to maintain her warmth. Pins and needles numbed her bare feet, yet the dry leaves managed to prick her skin with each step. Tree limbs seemed to dip and grab. They tugged at her hair, clawed across her tender flesh, and snagged her nightgown.

“Harold?” She tried again, then began to cry. Suddenly darkness swept over her. All sense of space evaporated. Her entire body jolted, first down, then up.

“Ughhh.” She felt the breath expel from her lungs.

“Tessa, wake up. Tessa?”

Her eyes flew open. Gray light met her vision, and in it, her bed, her dresser, and right before her, Harold. She shook her head, flinging her arms up and pushed him off. Turning, she swung her legs off the bed, and moving too quickly, banged into the wall.

Harold darted across the bed to her side. “Hey, are you okay? That must have been one hell of a dream.”

“I…” she looked around the room, taking it in. “I was dreaming?” She shivered, still feeling the sensation of crisp, dry leaves under foot.

“And screaming.” He rolled his eyes, laughed, and retreated to the dresser to begin his day. “I’ve never heard you act like that before.” He darted a glance at her. “Do you remember it?”

Hugging her arms, she looked at his side of the bed, recalling his voice in the night. Was he speaking in tongues? Or a foreign language? Her fingers and toes burned, exactly as they did every winter when she spent too long out in the cold. Lifting one of her feet, she was about to check and see if it had been pricked from walking in dead leaves and branches, when Harold drew her attention.

“Tess?”

“Huh? Oh, uh, no,” she said. “No, I don’t remember.” Even though she did remember. The weird sky and even weirder trees. How could she forget? She wanted to think on it more before she told him.

He shrugged. “I’ll start the coffee. You want me to put on toast?”

She nodded yes and made a quick dash for the shower, wanting the heat to help dispel the chill that somehow seeped into her bones.

Dressed, and now warm, Tessa felt one-hundred percent herself again. The scent of a fresh brew and toasting bread helped whisk away the surreal feeling that clung to her mind. She perched in her routine place at the kitchen island. Harold poured them both a coffee and slid a plate of buttered toast to the counter.

“Are you seeing Dr. Kendall today?” she asked before taking a bite of breakfast. While she was showering, she’d decided it might be best to see what his doctor would have to say about the strange night.

Harold nodded. “Yeah, it’s Wednesday, business as usual.”

“Maybe can you ask him why you might start talking your sleep?”

“I was talking in my sleep?”

It was her turn to nod, and she hurried on, “I know I was the one who woke up screaming but I think it was your sleep talking that did it to me.”

He frowned and said, “I don’t see the connection. How do you know I was talking if you were in the midst of some terrifying nightmare? Did you dream that I was talking in my sleep, perhaps? Maybe you need to see Dr. Kendall too.”

“No, no, first I woke up, and you were talking gibberish. Like serious nonsense. I don’t even know if you were speaking English. I forced myself back to sleep with that trick I do—”

“Yeah, I know it well,” he replied with a noticeable eye-roll.

Tessa continued, “Well it was when I fell back to sleep that I had this vivid dream where I woke up alone in some dark scary woods. And all I could hear was—aside from wind and leaves, that is—you chanting in a weird language. So, I think it got into my head. That’s all.”

“Fine, I’ll mention it, even though it’s not that kind of therapy you know.”

Tessa sipped her coffee to avoid responding. After one major road rage incident, his license had been suspended for a year and he’d been court ordered to see a counselor. She wasn’t sure what he thought the therapy was about, if not the amount of stress he was under. And rather than start the day off with a fight, she would let him decide if he brought it up to the doctor or not. She smiled and said, “Kay, ready?”

“To the office, James,” he retorted, a bit too sarcastically for her taste.

***

Ten long hours later they met for dinner at a restaurant downtown. Tessa knew Harold didn’t like to discuss his current situation in public. He was afraid someone he knew might overhear and burst the bubble of his staunch reputation. He was embarrassed enough by the fact that his wife had to chauffeur him around like a child. So, they talked work and plans for the weekend, and shared long moments of uncomfortable silence. It wasn’t until they were back in the safety of the car before she broached the subject of his doctor’s appointment that day.

“So… did you talk to Dr. Kendall?” Even in the shadowed light of the car, she saw his lip curl slightly.

“He said it’s nothing, people talk in there sleep all the time.” He tugged at the sleeves of his jacket, growing fidgety at the inability to drive. “Do you think if I said, hey my wife went bonkers and screamed bloody murder over a dream, he’d have some magical answer for that?”

“No need to get testy,” she said. “I was only asking because of the weird shit you were saying. That’s all. I’ll drop it, okay?”

“Please,” he said, picking at the crease on his pant leg and staring dead ahead.

They drove the rest of the way home without speaking, each going their own way once inside the house, and not meeting up again until bedtime.

After the driest peck for a kiss goodnight, Tessa lay staring into the darkness. The house made its own familiar creaks and groans around them. Harold’s breathing grew slow and heavy in rhythmic ease, and she knew he was out. The heat kicked on with a low purr, and her eyes drooped. The white noise around them turned into a womb of ambiance as Tessa slipped into sleep.

Her mind, unbeknownst to her, boarded on the precipice of deeper REM sleep, when a smell tickled her senses. A new dream began. Marshmallows bubbling under a blue flame danced across her vision. A campfire crackled nearby. Acrid tendrils of smoke curled towards her in the night. The smell of burning wood reached her cortex; awaking the need to flee—and her in the process.

“Fire!” Tessa cried out, sitting up.

However, once again she discovered she was planted in the middle of the strange woods. Now that she was conscious, the cold dimpled her flesh, and she shuddered. Sniffing the air, she detected the smoke that had awakened her. Harold’s voice came with it, on the wind. Just like the previous night, she couldn’t understand what he was saying.

“Harold?” she called, even though before it had been useless, his name fell from her lips, regardless. The wind grew teeth, biting at her exposed tender skin and set her jaw chattering. Getting to her feet, she looked around trying to determine where her husband’s voice was coming from. The tiniest glow emanated through the barren forest and she thought if that was the fire she was smelling, it appeared to be far away.

With no recourse, she walked towards the light.

Teeth clenched, to keep them from clacking uncontrollably, her arms braced so tight she was squeezing out her own breath, Tessa tiptoed over the foliage carpeted ground. Terrified of stepping on either a snake, or something sharp that might pierce her skin and leave her wounded and stranded, she kept her pace slow. The surrounding forest was resplendent with strange noises, unknown bird calls, skittering mice, or rats, she hoped mice, and the freakiest trees she’d never laid eyes on before. They had either been charred to petrified coal, or were naturally jet black. Their silhouettes disappeared among the darkness so that every now and again she’d bump into one as if it wasn’t even there.

Or. The idea crept into her skittish mind. Were they moving into her path of their own volition? Oh, stop, she berated herself. Trees don’t move.

A twig, invisible in the night, poked the corner of her eye. She jerked away, rubbing the spot,, and felt tears welling up. Exhausted, cold, and confused, she just wanted to curl up and sleep.

I must be in bed. I am asleep. This is only a bad dream, she told herself, continuing onward. Remember last night. Harold woke me, he’ll do it again. She pinched her arm, which seemed silly after almost losing an eye to a stick, and she knew she felt that, as the spot still stung. Wake up, damn it. But no matter how many times she willed herself awake. Or even for Harold to shake her again. The surrounding forest stayed the same. The icy wind still blew, the leaves under foot crunched, and the fire light grew larger.

She pushed on as Harold’s voice continued to beckon her. After what felt like hours, which seemed odd in itself as his tone always remained constant, the orange flames began to blind her. They danced and licked at the night, casting strange elongated, wavering shadows against the ebony trees.

“Harold?” She stepped into the clearing. Heat from the raging fire warmed the area and made her aware of the depth of her own chill.

Harold spoke from the opposite side of the flames. “Sacrifice domino tuo adest mihi.”

The warm ground sent pain shooting up Tessa’s frozen legs, and she hurried to where her husband was standing. “Har…” Her voice caught in her throat.

Harold was standing a foot away from the flames, stark naked, arms raised to the starry sky. His chest and pubic hair smoldered, giving off a pungent odor. He didn’t move or blink as she called out to him. She was about to rush forward and shake him awake, when something indescribable emerged from the darkness behind him.

She shrieked, her pulse raced, and even though the fire felt like it was melting her skin, a cold terror coursed through her veins. As the beast moved up behind Harold, the firelight illuminated a tall nude man wearing the head of an elk. His flaccid penis hung low against his thigh, seeming as ominous as a coiled snake. When he placed his hands upon Harold’s shoulders Tessa was loath to think of what was going to happen next. But what did happen was worse than what she was imagining.

The man’s hand came up and pointed at her. Her heart paused a beat and caught in her throat when his voice boomed, “Get her.”

Suddenly the woods around her came alive as black cloaked figures materialized from the obsidian forest.

She screamed in earnest now, turned to run, and whacked her head into a wall. The scream gurgled back into her throat. She slammed her hands against the wall, and only then realized she was no longer standing. Her knees jarred; she was lying face down on a hard surface. Beneath her were the familiar knots, and whirls of the laminate floor in her bedroom. Footsteps resounded around the room and the next thing she knew strong hands were lifting her. Now she panted in fear, beginning to hyperventilate.

“Tessa, stop! It’s me.” Harold took one of her elbows to the stomach and grunted, “Stop it.”

“No, leave me alone,” she said, struggling to get away in the tight space. Harold pushed her down onto the bed.

Tessa rubbed her face, looked around the room to ensure that she was in fact not dreaming now, and blinked. “But,” she began and her eyes grew wide. “You were there! And you were burning,” she said and clawed at his nightshirt.

Harold grabbed her hands. “Calm down. What is going on with you?”

She could see the genuine concern and confusion across his face. “Oh, Harold… I don’t know! I dreamed again of the woods, only this time I walked for hours until I found you at a fire. And then… then…” her breath hitched as she recalled the horrifying man in the elk mask.

“Shh,” Harold soothed, wrapped his arms around her shoulders and sat down beside her. “Listen, why don’t we both call in sick today? I’ll call Dr. Kendall and see if he will give me an emergency spot and allow you to come too. We have to find out what’s causing this.”

Tessa nodded. She wasn’t sure where these crazy dreams had come from, or why, and though she doubted the psychiatrist could give her all the answers in one session, perhaps he’d have some insight that might help.

***

Sitting in Dr. Kendall’s waiting room later that day, Tessa discovered she was nervous about meeting him for the first time. Harold had been seeing him for a few months already and she wasn’t sure what, if anything, had been said about her. She felt at a disadvantage. But she was here now, and hoping for answers, so she waited and took in the surroundings.

The waiting area was large and bleak. The seating consisted solely of black leather with chrome accents, and the walls were adorned with geometric shapes in blacks or grays with stark white backgrounds. She was about to lean in and whisper to Harold how the place felt cold and lonely, when the door opened and Dr. Kendall waved them into his private space.

Harold took her hand, leading them inside. As they passed the doctor, Tessa noted how he towered above them and goosebumps caressed her flesh. Something about him gave her the willies.

Dr. Kendall began, “What brings you here today?” He motioned to the chairs across from his black lacquered desk. His icy blue gaze fixed on Tessa. “Harold says there is a calamity of sorts transpiring.”

Tessa withheld a shudder and thought, calamity? Who talks like that anymore? And aloud said, “Well I wouldn’t say a cal…” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word and finished, “It’s nothing serious. The last two nights I’ve had some extremely vivid dreams.”

“They’re more than just vivid dreams. She’s thrashing, screaming and this morning, diving out of bed.” Harold patted her arm. “We’re worried about how extreme they are and why they’ve seemingly come out of nowhere. Do you think you can help?”

Dr. Kendall leaned back, steepling his fingers under his chin. “Tell me about them,” he said quietly.

With a sigh, not particularly happy about sharing her terrifying dreams with the creep, Tessa began explaining the scenes in as much detail as possible. After twenty minutes of non-stop talking, she slumped in her chair, exhausted.

“Those sound like something greater than simple nightmares to me,” Dr. Kendall said.

Harold sat upright. “What do you mean, Doc?” He took Tessa’s hand, his eyes flashing from her to the doctor and back again.

She cocked her head. “Yes, what do you mean, more than dreams? What else is there?”

Dr. Kendall opened the drawer on his desk and brought out a pad. He spoke as he wrote. “I have had patients who have died, gone to the other side, and returned shortly after. There are too many stories out there for them not to be believed. Anyway, it sounds to me like you are slipping into a past life regression—”

“You can’t be serious?” Tessa’s lip lifted in a sneer.

The doctor rose to his full height, stepped from behind his desk, he held out a slip of paper. “I am dead serious, Tessa. It’s a simple fix, however. Take this and you’ll sleep like a baby. No more regression, or dreams, or nightmares, if you prefer. You’ll wake up in eight hours right as rain.”

Tessa looked at the paper and the chicken scratched word that read: Ambien. She tilted it toward Harold who was also eager to see what it read. “This is the solution? Take drugs and I won’t dream?”

“If you like I can pencil you in to see me each week. Say Wednesdays at seven?”

She bolted up from her chair grabbing Harold’s sleeve. “No thanks. Pills it is. Thank you for your time.”

When the door closed behind them Harold whispered to her, “What is wrong with you? He went out of his way to let us come here today.”

Tessa rolled her eyes. “I know you are court ordered to see him, but the guy’s a quack Harold. I’ll take the Ambien to sleep for a few days and catch up on rest but that’s it. Come on though, you can’t really believe its past life regression? I poured my heart out to the guy, and drugs is his answer. I hope he does better by you.”

“Yeah, no, I get it. He’s nothing like that during my time. Dr. Kendall has some really deep philosophies, and talks half my sessions. It was rude to run out on him like that. You could have at least finished the session, then you could see what he’s really like.”

“Sorry. Something about him felt…” She shivered again. “Off.”

“Don’t worry you won’t have to see him again.” Harold reassured her. “Get a couple nights rest as you say, and I’m sure the dreams will stop.”

“I hope so,” she whispered.

***

That night Tessa had a hot bath, a warm glass of milk, her first Ambien, and went to bed early hoping for a full night’s rest. After the grueling dream excursion the previous night, along with the pill, she fell into an instant empty sleep.

Light filtered through her eyelids. Tessa moaned, her head lolled, and she tried to open her eyes. Low chanting entered her consciousness. Men’s voices. It sounded like many voices blended in harmony, rising and falling, hard, yet peaceful, echoed through the air. Squeezing her eyes tight, she tried again to open them. A crack of yellow light filtered through, but above her there was nothing but darkness. No, it wasn’t quite darkness. It was low light. A near twilight, like…Oh no, it’s happening again! Her heart thumped hard in her chest.

She tried to move and found she couldn’t. “Uhnhaui,” she said and gagged at something in her mouth. Pressing her tongue forward, it encountered a moist fabric. What the hell? She shook her head and found it was free, so she lifted it to look around, then screamed against the cloth.

Black-cloaked figures surrounded her. She was strapped to a hard slab of some sort. The familiar bonfire caressed the sky in the distance, and the man in the elk mask was standing at her feet.

The chanting continued. “Et beatos vos autem Dominus ad Satan iungere si hoc vestra sectatores sacrifice.”

Tessa struggled. “Lema ohh. Ohh aagg uuna!” she called, useless under the gag.

The people ignored her as she fought against the ropes. Then the elk-man turned and spoke, his voice muffled through the animal skin. “Harold come forth.”

“Ahhag?” Tessa’s eyes bulged. She recognised the elk-man’s voice. Why was she here and what was Harold doing? Her mind raced as her husband came out of the darkness. Once again, he was stark naked. He appeared to be in some sort of trance as he climbed onto the slab upon command, like a mindless-human-robot.

She rocked against the restraints, yelling as loud as possible, her throat clenching and growing hoarse. “Omagh onnaa ooo hissss.” No matter what she tried to do or say, Harold never once looked at her. His gaze was lost somewhere else. Tessa began to cry. The voices continued to chant. As she listened to the words closely, she knew it was Latin, though she didn’t understand it.

Terror twisted her belly into knots and she peed herself as the elk-man placed a large knife into Harold’s hands and spoke English. “The time has come. This man shall sacrifice his wife tonight and with her blood we shall bring Lucifer back to our midst.”

Tessa bucked her hips as Harold sat his full weight across them. Straining her neck up, she screamed again. It did nothing to bring her husband around. She turned to the elk-man and cried, “Iiiii?”

Ignoring her, elk-man put his hand over Harold’s, the chanting rose in a crescendo, and he growled, “Kill her!”

Harold brought the knife down against her breast, pressed down with both hands and drove it straight through her heart. Her eyes pleaded for help, then widened in pain. But only for an instant, before rolling back to the whites in death.

***

Harold inhaled sharply, squeezed the mattress under his fingers, and woke to the brightening morning. His heart palpated. Sweat soaked his body. Relax it was a dream, he told himself. I’m sure she’ll get a kick out of the irony, she finally gets a restful night, and I have the nightmare. He took a deep breath before rolling over to share his nightmare with his wife, only to encounter a cold, empty spot.

“Tess?” He called, getting out of bed and slipping into his robe.

Any other day he wouldn’t give a thought as to why his wife wasn’t in bed. She’d be in the washroom, or making coffee, or even sitting watching the morning news. But this day felt different. She should still be in a deep asleep after taking Ambien. He didn’t know if it was residuals from his nightmare, or that she hadn’t been herself lately, but any annoyance he’d had with her throughout the week suddenly seemed petty. The pit of his stomach registered something wrong, and he didn’t like the hollowness riding his gut.

He moved through the house. The bathroom and kitchen were empty.

“Tess?” he called louder.

His heart thumped against his chest with each step. Not knowing where this fear stemmed from wasn’t helping his nerves either. He checked the side table where they dumped their belongings upon entering the house. Her purse was there. He ran back to the bedroom, flicked on the light and saw her cell phone still plugged in on her nightstand. His breath came in short gasps as panic took hold. He ran back through the house and tore open the living-room blinds. The car sat in its usual spot in the driveway.

Enough was enough. Harold called the police.

***

The cloaked figured paced. “I’m getting impatient, how many more sacrifices do we need to make before Satan rises?”

“Perhaps twelve will be the magic number,” Dr. Kendall said, lifting the elk head from its peg.

“That’s what you said for the ninth sacrifice.”

“You’ve seen what I can do.” The doctor’s gaze pierced the sniveling man before him. “I have harnessed the power to transport people from our realm into a different time and place. Why, I snatch them from their safe beds, and fling open doors that you can’t even see! Am I wrong about that?”

No, no, of course not,” the smaller man said, stepping further into the shadows. It’s only… uh… don’t get me wrong, I have no compunction about killing. I rather enjoy the show. I actually feel bad for the innocent men.”

Dr. Kendall slipped the heavy elk’s head into his black duffel, along with the sharp obsidian sacrificial knife, and rose to his full 6’4” height. “Harold and the others will spend the rest of their days in the looney-bin. What the hell kind of Satan worshiper are you if you’re worried about innocent men? What do you think is going to happen to all the innocent men, woman, and children when Lucifer rises?” His eyes narrowed, and he grabbed the cloaked figure’s arm. “Perhaps your wife should be next.”

“No, no, I’m fine, really. Only impatient is all. So, who’s next?”

With a maniacal grin—one that if Tessa had seen upon her visit with Dr. Kendall, would have clued her in to how twisted he was—rubbed his hands together and said, “I have the perfect candidate. He came to me of his own volition as an admitted wife-beater. No one will question it when his wife disappears.”

***

At first Harold thought the police were on his side. Until a week into Tessa’s disappearance, and they came back with shackles. He was flabbergasted. How could they possibly think he could hurt her? After a rough twenty-four-hour interrogation, they brought out a tape recorder.  He listened in horror, his mouth agape, eyes seeking a friendly face among the accusing ones. Only there were none. The voice on the tape was his, it was monotone, but it was his, repeating a phrase in Latin. “Tolle hoc sacrificium, quod diximus introduxit coram te.” Over and over again.

He begged them; he was drugged, tricked, under hypnosis. Something. He had no idea what the words even meant. But Doctor Kendall provided the police the tape. The doctor swore under oath that Harold talked about how much he hated his wife. And how he vowed to make her go away. That sometimes Harold would slip away into a strange trance and utter this phrase.

Even though he was released on his own recognizance until atrial date, Harold’s life was ruined. He lost his job. His family and friends stopped talking to him. And of course, Tessa’s family sent him death threats of their own. Amidst the shock and loss of losing his wife, he was pained to find his entire world no longer existed.

Then the nightmares started. Only he was sure they weren’t nightmares, but rather, memories. He saw the blackened woods as Tessa had described. Cloaked figures danced around his naked body, while he stood in a trance, seeing and hearing, but doing nothing. Night after night, the same dream. Everso slowly it began to change. Next there was bonfire. Then analtar. Then his poor wife in her nightgown screaming in his face. Pleading with him. While he did nothing.

As the dreams continued to paint a horrifying tapestry of murder, he sunk deeper into hopelessness. Then he heard Latin phrases rattling around in his brain. Tolle hoc sacrificium, quod diximus introduxit coram te.  And along with his voice, the chanting of many, and another one. One that he’d spent many hours with.

“It can’t be,” he mumbled. But it made sense. Why would Doctor Kendall set him up, if he wasn’t behind it to begin with? Piecing together the words as best he could, he Google searched the phrase and found a translation: I call demons. Take this sacrifice. I am your master.

“You son-of-a-bitch.” Harold stood from his desk. He wasn’t going to let the bastard take his life too. All he needed was some proof.

***

The moment twilight faded to black, Harold slipped out into the night. Having found Doctor Kendall’s home address, through the power of the internet, he used two buses and walked a good ten minutes to the man’s house on the outskirts of suburbia. Upon his arrival he was crest fallen. It appeared the evil doctor was having a party judging by the number of cars in the drive. But when he peered in through a back window, his heart leaped with hope. For inside he spied a dimly lit room filled with cloaked figures. Something strange was afoot, and he was about to find out what.

Ducking away from the window, he stepped cautiously onto the wooden deck when the voices from within rose into a rhythmic beat. Goosebumps flecked his flesh, and he hurried to the side of the un-curtained patio doors to get a look at what was happening.

The group formed a circle, with the tallest in the center, Harold knew that would be Kendall without a doubt. Vibrations from the chanting circle reverberated under his feet. He reached out, gingerly testing the glass. It too was vibrating. His toes began to tingle as the sensation moved deeper into him. Knots formed in his stomach and his head throbbed. Unsure what was happening, only suspecting it had something to do with the chant, he was about to push himself away from the doors, when suddenly he lost his balance and fell forward.

He cried out, arms pinwheeling, and landed on his knees in the dirt.

“Who’s there?” Doctor Kendall spun to the intruder.

Harold was too flabbergasted to react instantly. The deck underfoot was gone. He was no longer watching the group through glass doors, but instead kneeling on bare ground in a clearing illuminated by a predawn hue.

Once the doctor saw he knew the unwanted straggler, his ire transformed into an ominous grin. “Grab him,” he instructed the cloaked figures who were standing around dumbfounded.

“So, I was right,” Harold said as the men lifted him to his feet, holding his arms. He was too stunned to put up a fight.

A hearty laugh bellowed from the doctor’s chest. “Peons,” he said, not bothering to enlighten his victim. “Let’s see if our first male sacrifice breaks the barrier. Strip him.” He instructed his minions, dropping his own robe to show his usually flaccid member standing erect with excitement.

Now Harold pulled back. The image of himself naked, straddling Tessa with the large knife buried in her chest flooded his memory.  “NO” he screamed. His captors were unprepared for the sudden outburst. He yanked loose, reaching into his coat pocket in a fluid motion, coming up with a small gun.

“What are you going to do with that, little man?” Kendall’s brow rose, his grin certain as he motioned his men to step away.

“What do you think I’m going to do? Huh? I’m taking my life back, that’s what.”

“Not a good idea. Do you know where we are?”

Harold wasn’t going to wait for the doctor to command his people to pounce. His time was now or never. Without another word he pulled the trigger. His aim was true, a small hole appeared in the doctor’s forehead and wept blood.

Kendall stood a moment longer, his gaze never faltered, and in the echo of disbursed air his body crumpled to the ground.

Time froze for a few seconds, then erupted into calamity. At first Harold aimed the gun around, expecting the others to attack. But they ignored him, instead all flocking to their leader. Until the heads began to turn.

“Do you know what you just did?” one man asked.

“Shit, what do we do now?”

“Can anyone get us out of here?

The voices began to rise and overlap, turning into a mash of noise. Harold took in his surroundings for the first time. The dim light above had not altered. The trees were barren and blackened, almost as though they’d been charred where they stood. “Where are we?” he said.

A figure stood, moved halfway between the doctor’s still form and Harold, and said, “Well genius, you’ve just condemned us all to a different plane.”

“What?” he replied still dealing with all kinds of shock. “What does that even mean?”

The other cloaked figures hoods now dropped. They began to stand and turn. Harold gulped; he didn’t have enough bullets for them all.

Someone yelled, “Sacrifice him!”

He turned and ran for the forest, praying they were all insane and he’d find help soon.

The End

Gods and Monsters

By

C L Raven

You don’t notice it at first.

Subtle changes to your personality. It’s stress. It’s work, it’s other people. The rage, it’s normal, you’re overtired. Punching that guy that leered at me? He deserved it. Biting his ear off? My blood sugar was low. Smashing up the police car when they arrested me? Righteous rage. But that strength didn’t come from my kickboxing class.

My sudden interest in languages and lost civilisations I attributed to my love of travelling. My new hobby of collecting cursed artefacts I blamed on wanting more interesting souvenirs than keyrings, and turning 30. That always led to big life changes.

Friends said I’d changed but they were jealous of my weekend exploring the Mayan city, Tulum, in Mexico was more interesting than drinking and waking the next morning feeling like death, or dealing with the miserable drudgery of parenthood. Visiting ruins was my lifetime hobby, although I’d mostly explored castles, tourist spots and catacombs in Italy, Greece and eastern Europe. That’s how it happened. I’d visited the Capuchin Ossuary in Rome and left with rare souvenirs such as a persistent creepy feeling, nightmares of torment, and fluent Italian.

I thought I had a fever. My GP blamed PMS.

When I’d visited the Gedi Ruins in Kenya, a voodoo priest warned me the site was protected by the spirits of its priests and these ‘old ones’ cursed anyone who harmed the site. I was planning on photography, not wanton destruction. He also told me I was possessed by a demon. I laughed. I would’ve noticed that. Apparently not. Their takeover is slow. There are three stages: Manifestation and Infestation, Oppression then Full Possession. If they suddenly seized control, you’d try to fight them off. Like when you’re struck down by the norovirus and your cells ready themselves for warfare. So demons creep in, starting with a simple haunting and growing more malevolent, eroding your mind until they have complete autonomy. The priest offered to perform an exorcism. I refused.

I liked the new me.

I liked my demon.

I would never have travelled to these places or learned ancient languages before. I definitely wouldn’t haven bitten off a pervert’s ear. I was an improved version of myself.

Through the voodoo priest’s spell, I communicated with my demon and we agreed on a partnership.

Now, we travel the world collecting cursed artefacts and performing exorcisms on other possessed people.

This sounds like a noble cause. It’s not. The truth is, the artefact we seek will give us ultimate power. And we don’t want anyone else to find it. Only demons know of its existence. These aren’t the demons of Christianity that popular culture portrays. These are ancient entities. They’ve been here long before the first human evolved and will be here long after the last human has died. It takes a long time for possession to successfully take hold so casting them out forces them to start again with a new host, giving us an advantage. The Catholic Church hires me in secret. Only those in the Vatican know of my skills. I’m the best exorcist in the history of the Church, and the only female one.

It takes a demon to hunt a demon.

***

Clothes, pizza boxes and mouldy mugs littered the bedroom floor. Stale vomit stained the carpet. Empty beer bottles cloaked in dust spilled out of the toppled bin. Flies buzzed around the windows, maggots gorging on rotting food. Words scrawled over the walls; an Egyptian dialect that hadn’t been spoken in a thousand years. I photographed them. They spoke of a canopic jar containing the ashes of Ammut – devourer of the dead.

I had to find that jar.

“Demonic possession is no excuse for living in a landfill.” My nose wrinkled as I stepped away from what appeared to be a plastic bottle filled with urine. There were more scattered around the room. I stepped back, glancing out the door. The bathroom was just to the left of the bedroom.

“We’re here to save him, not to judge him.” Father Joseph covered his nose with a handkerchief.

A man lay shackled to the bed, heavy chains wrapped around his naked, hairy torso. Blood seeped over the metal each time he moved, his face a mask of torment. Flies feasted on his open wounds.

“He’ll probably die of sepsis first.”

“The demon is strong in Kieran.” Father Joseph crossed himself.

“When I cast it out, you owe this man an apology. And a trip to A and E.”

“If he survives.”

“I haven’t lost one yet. Though I’m not convinced this one is still alive.”

I opened Kieran’s eyes. Red irises stared back at me. My eyes looked like that. The demon hadn’t just moved in, it had signed the mortgage papers. Drool and vomit stained his chin. Body odour, stale urine, halitosis and decay perfumed the air. Sweat coated Kieran’s skin. I touched his chest.

“Ow!” I wrenched my hand away, blowing on my burnt fingers.

Father Joseph offered me a bible, but I waved it away. You had to be a believer for that to work.

“Who are you?” I asked in Latin.

“I’m not telling you my name. Traitor.”

It knew my other half. That scuppered things. My demon wasn’t popular amongst its own kind, for teaming up with a human to exorcise its own kind.

I began the exorcism. I pulled a Phurba from my pocket and pointed it at Kieran. It’s a wooden three-sided dagger from Tibet, used in exorcisms. Kieran’s body twisted, the chains biting his flesh.

“Why do you want Kieran?”

The demon didn’t answer.

Pain erupted in my right hand as my fingers changed to black talons. Blood dripped onto the carpet. Fire flowed through my veins. I ran a talon down Kieran’s chest. Black blood seeped out, mixing with the red. Dipping my finger in it, I drew a triquetra – a circle with three interlinked loops over it. An exorcism symbol made famous by Charmed.

Books on Egypt crowded one shelf. Books on mythology filled another.

“Kieran can help you find the ashes.”

I walked over to a desk buried beneath papers and maps.

“He keeps the knowledge in his head. Only I have access to it.”

That was inconvenient. I removed a battered notebook from my pocket. Its crumpled pages contained drawings, incantations and exorcism rituals from all over the world. Some were written in blood. I began reciting one of the rituals. If this failed, there were others I would try.

An hour passed and the demon showed no sign of leaving. The chains gouged Kieran’s body and gnawed partway through his wrists. Father Joseph flicked holy water over him, praying. Burns and welts rose, bursting through Kieran’s fragile skin. I gagged at the stench.

“Father, you should leave. You won’t like how I operate.”

“I must be here to give him the last rites, if he doesn’t survive.”

My nerves ignited. I clenched my jaw to stop myself screaming.

“Give them to him now. Though you’re probably already too late. This isn’t a living body.”

My thundering heart drowned out Father Joseph’s voice. Blood clouded my vision as nightmares awoke in my mind.

Father Joseph kissed his stole and prayed.

Their horror at my demonic form gave me a thrill. I inhaled the sweat of his fear and approached the bed. He tripped as he scrambled away.

I stared down at Kieran. “Leave him or die.”

“I’d rather die than let you have the ashes.”

“As you wish.”

Smoke rose from his body as his skin blistered and split. The stench of decay and scorching flesh filled the room. He screamed and in his voice, I heard the demon’s and the screams of the damned. The lights blew, showering me in glass. I pulled a lighter from my pocket and read my book by the flame. This was ritual six. This demon was strong. Kieran’s bones cracked, his skin tearing. His torso broke open and a black shadowy form unfurled its long, gnarled limbs from the bloody crevice, reaching for a lifeform the way a spider reaches for its prey. Crooked fingers explored Father Joseph’s face, ashes kissing his skin. I pushed the priest behind me. Kieran’s screams were a siren song of suffering, tempting me to inflict more pain. I wiped away his tears and licked them off my talon.

Father Joseph grabbed my arm. “You’re killing him!”

“He’s already dead!”

I threw him across the room and prised open Kieran’s ribcage. I spoke the final line and closed the book. Shamans normally stabbed the Phurba into the ground, or a bowl of rice to free the demon. I didn’t want it freed.

I stabbed the Phurba into Kieran’s blackened heart. It pulsed, blackness spreading through his veins. I tore out his heart and devoured it, its bitter taste making me gag. Whilst I shared my demon’s love for power and wanton destruction, I didn’t share its taste for raw hearts. Especially corrupted ones.

When I’d swallowed the last piece, I fought to regain control. It hurt less reverting to me, but it was as much fun as period cramps.

I opened Kieran’s eyes. Blood trickled from them as the red irises faded to brown. I let his eyes close. Father Joseph lay sprawled against a bookcase. I helped him up.

“Sorry, Father. Are you hurt?”

“You…killed him! That is not why we are here! We’re here to save this man’s eternal soul and his mortal shell!” Using his handkerchief, he wiped the ashes from his face, his fingers trembling.

“The demon had taken full possession. You saw that thing. It wasn’t human. I had no choice but to destroy it.”

“You’ve damned his soul!”

“And saved someone else’s. Yours. If I hadn’t moved you, by next month, it would be you writhing in pain while flies devour your rotting flesh.”

“I’m reporting this sacrilegious act to the Vatican!”

“He was dead when you got here. That wasn’t a man you chained to the bed, it was his corpse. Or couldn’t you smell the rot over the stench of your hypocrisy?”

Father Joseph snatched up his bible and fled. Harbouring a demon makes you unpopular. Gutting a man in front of a priest wouldn’t win me friends. Friends were overrated anyway. Power was what I craved. The demon said I wouldn’t find the answer in this room. Demons lie. Kieran learned it from somewhere.

While I scoured the books, the clean-up crew arrived. These were trainee priests, sworn to secrecy. They would pass Kieran’s death off as a suicide after a prolonged battle with mental illness.

It wasn’t just demons who lied.

The Church was better at cover ups and deceit than MI5.

One man retched when he saw the corpse. The smell was the worst thing. Demons rot you from the inside, especially if the host rejects them. As with infection, the human body is designed to fight off foreign invaders. But like cancer, demons will kill you in the end. Unless someone like me cuts them out. The Church paid for me to have regular medical tests. I was too valuable to die. My demon had integrated well with my DNA and cells. Being possessed was good for my health.

The man on the bed, his insides black and putrid, was not so lucky. He’d died weeks ago and the demon kept him functioning until it found the ashes. I gave him a quicker death.

The priests heaved Kieran into a body bag then dragged him onto a stretcher. Black gunk and blood stained the bed where he’d died. The stench of infection and death was a cloying fragrance that would linger long after evidence of his existence had been removed. It was in the bed sheets, the wallpaper, the carpet. One man vomited as he gathered the sheets. They would be incinerated with Kieran’s body. Ashes to ashes. Burn the evidence so there’s nothing to find if suspicious family members come looking. One trainee carefully stepped around the room, placing lit incense sticks on every surface.

“I’ll take these.” I indicated to the books, maps and the computer.

“What was he looking for?” one young priest flicked through papers on the desk.

“A cure?” I shrugged. “Maybe he was trying to exorcise the demon himself. Or trying to find its name. Demons are easier to control if you know their name.” I didn’t know my demon’s name.

“If he’d come to the Church sooner, we could’ve helped him.”

“Some people don’t want to be helped.” I gathered the maps and papers and put them in a box another trainee handed me.

“The demon won’t possess one of us, will it?”

“No. I killed it.”

“Is there any way to…protect ourselves?”

“No.” I added books into the box. “Because you don’t feel it happening. Like when you get a cold. You’re not aware of when the virus enters your body then you wake one morning with a blocked nose and a headache. You can take steps to make it harder. They’ll always go for an easier target.”

“Do people remember their possession?”

“No. The Church pays for the best therapy, including hypnotherapy. The person believes they had a mental breakdown and spent the missing periods of their memory drugged in a hospital.”

“They’re lied to?”

“If they knew the truth, they would end up in a hospital. Or take their own lives. That’s happened. The Church is learning from its mistakes.”

I left the priests to clean up and headed home to examine Kieran’s research in peace. After a snack to banish the taste of raw heart, I spread the maps over the floor. Several places had been marked, but there were no notes to accompany the circles. When I started hunting for artefacts, the demon would eat the host’s brain, hoping to absorb the knowledge, but we realised that when the host dies, the knowledge dies with them. I was relieved. Brains tasted worse than hearts.

I opened the first book. One advantage of demonic possession is demons grasp information quicker than humans, so I only had to scan the pages and my demon understood it immediately. My IQ had increased since being possessed, even if my patience hadn’t.

By dawn, I had read all of the books and studied every map. I looked at the photo of the message scrawled on the wall. It mentioned the canopic jar was in a buried tomb. New tombs were being unearthed, so maybe an archaeologist was close to finding one. But why hadn’t the demon possessed an archaeologist? Why Kieran? Maybe his love of mythology enticed it.

There was only one way to find the tomb: I had to go to Egypt.

***

Airport trips were now amusing. All of their checks for bombs or illegal substances and they hadn’t invented a scanner to detect the demon, which was deadlier than any suspicious liquid. I smiled as I endured the pat down and was allowed to go.

I dropped my bag off at the hotel then headed to the Valley of the Kings. It always overwhelmed me. I would never tire of its beauty. But most of these tombs had been excavated. I needed one that wasn’t.

I walked for most of the afternoon, the unrelenting sun torturing me with its hot kisses. I consulted Kieran’s map, along with my notes. I’d narrowed down the search area but finding the tomb wasn’t going to be easy. Evidence of recent archaeological digs were scattered around the area. Footsteps led to a half dug out tomb, but not away. Blood stained the sand by the entrance. Accident with a falling rock? Or something more sinister?

I peered into the tomb, but it was full of sand. It would take the archaeologists a while to unearth it. I didn’t sense anything magical, so I continued looking.

My skin prickled. I turned around. A man stood on a rock, watching me. I approached him. He didn’t move. Electricity crawled over my skin the closer I got. When I looked into his eyes, I knew.

Demon.

“What are you doing here?” he asked in Egyptian Arabic.

“I’ve come to see the pyramids and the Valley of the Kings.”

“You lie like you breathe. We’re here for the same thing, and it isn’t cheap souvenirs.”

“We could team up. We’ll find it quicker with both of us looking.” I flashed what I hoped was a friendly smile.

“And have you kill me and bury me in a tomb when I find it first?”

Pain ripped through my body. My taloned hand punched a hole in the man’s chest. I snatched his heart and ate it as he crumbled onto the rock, his blood pooling around him and cascading onto the sand below.

“What did you do that for?”

“We had to get rid of the competition.”

“He was in stage two. We could’ve exorcised it.”

“It’s too late for regrets.”

“Regret is drinking too much at your work’s party and trying to kiss your boss. You killed a man we could’ve interrogated.”

“Demons are base beings that run on instinct. We simply act.”

“And leave me with body disposal and a lot of explaining to do.”

“He isn’t getting a tomb.”

I quickly searched the man’s body for maps or notes about the canopic jar. Nothing. I dug a hole with my spade and rolled the man into it before covering him and the crimson sand. It would hide him long enough for me to find the tomb, steal the ashes and fly home. Hopefully scavengers would find him before tour guides did.

The map led to me to false leads, discovered tombs and a live dig before eventually showing me the way to a rock. I was hot, fed up and doubting the existence of the ashes.

“The map was a test.”

“A test of my patience.”

“You failed that one.”

“Shut up.”

I crouched before the rock and brushed sand off it, revealing hieroglyphs etched into the stone.

Tomb of Ammut.

I dug by the stone, the sand collapsing until an opening appeared. I dug faster. This must be the entrance. Finally, I created a hole large enough to crawl through. I slithered head first through the opening, walking my hands forward until my legs wriggled through. I stood. Darkness cloaked me. I switched on my torch, the beam prowling the tomb.

Artwork decorated the stone walls, depicting people running from Ammut by a fiery lake. Ammut, with her crocodile head, the front half of her body a lion and the back half a hippopotamus, was a funeral deity who embodied everything Egyptians feared. Another mural showed Ammut devouring hearts beneath Anubis’s scales of justice in Duat, the underworld. The feather of Ma’at lay on the scales.

“Ammut shares your love of hearts. You should invite her over for dinner.”

This was definitely the right place. But there was nothing here. I knew it wouldn’t be that easy. The Egyptians made the tomb impossible to find. They wouldn’t leave the ashes in the entrance for anyone to steal.

I circled the tomb, my fingers tracing the murals, the people’s terrified eyes, Ammut’s powerful body, the screaming dead clamped in her terrible jaws.

Click.

I found a button concealed in Ammut’s left eye. Sand tumbled down as the tomb quivered. I hoped I hadn’t triggered the self-destruct button. I hadn’t come all this way and done all that research to be buried alive in a forgotten tomb.

Scrape.

Ammut’s mouth opened. I stepped back. The stones shifted down, the mouth opening wider, revealing a tunnel carved from the stone. Coldness seeped out, caressing my burning skin.

“I’m not going in there.”

“For great power, you must pay a great price.”

“I’m not willing to die for you. That’s barely big enough for me to fit.”

“Maybe you are not worthy. I was wrong to choose you.”

“If I die, you die.”

“I don’t think so.”

I shone the torch into the hole. I couldn’t see an end. But I had no choice. Cursing the Egyptians for their elaborate tombs, I crawled in, bracing my feet either side to push me along, my fingers clawing the stone to pull. Inch by inch, I slid further into the tunnel, trying to calm my panic. My torch light barely pierced the endless gloom. Voices whispered insidious secrets. I grew hot through the effort and fear but forced myself along.

This is not where I would die.

Not today.

Not like this.

I reached out, feeling an edge. I gripped it and dragged my body through the narrow gap. Images of pot holers trapped upside down in narrow caverns, awaiting their slow and agonising death tormented me. There would be no-one to sedate me to ease my final moments. Rock scraped my back, blood trickling down my skin. I bit my lip to stop myself swearing. Obscenities in an ancient tomb would probably unleash a host of curses upon me.

The tunnel widened and I sat up. My legs dangled over the edge as I shone my torch around. Statues of Anubis flanked the tunnel, their hands extended towards it. The embalmer, guardian of tombs and cemeteries, and guide to the underworld. I hoped he wouldn’t lead me to the underworld. Stone steps led into the tomb. Shabti figures stood around, waiting to be brought to life to do manual work in the afterlife. Shadows darted around the statues, elongated limbs promising nightmares. Gold paint glistened on the walls, which depicted Ammut eating corrupted hearts and condemning the dead to eternal restlessness.

A coffin lay in the centre, Ammut’s crocodile face painted on it.

I grasped Anubis’s hand and lowered myself to the steps. I descended slowly, taking photos in case nobody believed my story. I stroked the coffin. Why was there was a coffin when Ammut was believed to dwell in Duat? Why build a tomb for the devourer of the dead?

What was I about to wake?

“Open it.”

“I know what happens to explorers who open tombs.”

“I’ll protect you from any curse.”

Another perk to hosting a demon.

I pushed the lid. It didn’t move. It had been shut for four thousand years; it was bound to be stiff. Pain blasted through my arms as the demon gained control. The lid opened. Dust escaped in a grey cloud. I expected to see a mummy, awaiting its journey to the afterlife. I was wrong. A canopic jar stood in the centre of the coffin. Instead of one of the four sons of Horus, Apophis’s head adorned the top. The god of chaos. That wasn’t good.

My hands shook as I lifted the jar and removed the lid. Ashes lay inside.

Ammut.

That’s why it wanted the ashes. The Egyptians believed the body was made of five things: the body, the ka, the ba, the name and the shadow. The ka was a replica of the body, the ba its personality. But the ka needed a body. The body that was turned to ash.

I closed the coffin, poured the ashes onto it then recited an invocation in ancient Egyptian. The ashes swirled around the tomb. The ground shook. Cracks snaked through the floor and walls; ugly wounds scarring it forever. Sand rained down. The Anubis statues shuffled closer, their flails ready to protect the tomb. The ashes took on the form of a chimera – head of a crocodile, body of a lion and hippopotamus with glowing red eyes and vicious jaws.

Fear stole my breath. My heart thumped, cold sweat clung to my body. I couldn’t look away. Ammut charged towards me. Her lion claws ripped my flesh, her brutal teeth clamping into my neck. Agony burned through me. Visions of sacrifices, mutilation, and genocide tortured my mind. The taste of blood poisoned my tongue. I saw burning, ransacked cities, civilisations swallowed by the sea, fallen governments and the graves of those who would perish in the onslaught. I heard their cries, tasted their tears and feasted upon their broken spirits.

I screamed.

My body bucked and writhed as Ammut prised open my ribcage and forced her way inside.

***

I opened my eyes. Sand covered me like a shroud. I sat up and banged my head. I felt around me. Walls and a roof encased me.

“No!”

I brought my knees to my chest and kicked. The lid didn’t move. Panic embraced me, choking me. I kicked harder then pushed it. Nothing. My fists hammered on the lid as I yelled, rocking from side to side in an effort to tip the coffin over. I braced my feet against the lid again, using all my strength, my rage, my terror. The lid rose and slid to the side. I sat up in the coffin and coughed, frantically shining my torch around. Most of the tomb had collapsed, but the tunnel was intact. Twisted shadows reached for me. The artwork came to life, Ammut consuming all who were corrupt.

I thought I’d feel different. Powerful.

I felt…human.

“Shit.”

Ammut was gone.

And so was my demon.

***

My body mourned the loss of my demon. Sickness pummelled my stomach, my hands trembled, my head throbbed. A powerful entity that had lived inside me for years was gone and I was left weak, sick and angry. I’d tasted power and I wasn’t ready to give it up. I’d found the ashes for my demon and it abandoned me? To find someone in the position to use Ammut for maximum power?

I wouldn’t let that happen. That power was mine.

The demon couldn’t condemn me to mere humanity after everything we’d been through. I would not surrender my new exciting life to become ordinary again.

I had to find my demon. But without it, I had no way of sensing these entities.

I had to find a new demon.

Once demons have integrated with a host, they become bonded. Even after a successful exorcism, they leave a residue behind. I’d use that to track it.

But first, I had to escape the tomb before it collapsed further.

I wriggled through the tunnel, the stone scraping my skin, tearing my clothes and leaving bloodied kisses. Leathery hands grabbed me. Voices whispered in my ear. I shrieked, kicking out, crawling faster until I reached the end, put my hands down and rolled out, landing on the sandy ground. The entrance was buried in sand. I told myself that disturbing the coffin caused a mini earthquake and that’s why I became buried. I didn’t want to face the ugly truth.

My demon had left me to die.

I clawed through the sand, cursing as it showered me in its hot golden grains. I coughed, closing my eyes and dug faster, screaming in rage at the futility until daylight filtered through a hole. I used the pile of sand at my feet to climb, reaching through the hole until I found stone then kicking and hauling myself out of the tomb. I lay in the sand breathing hard, the sun scorching my skin.

Voices. Men hurried over, talking fast. Without my demon, I could only understand a few words I’d committed to memory. I gestured to the tomb and in broken Egyptian Arabic, told them about the tomb of Ammut. I staggered away as they excitedly started digging and waving archaeologists over. I disappeared into a tour group that was leaving the pyramids and followed them until we reached the crowded streets.

I sat in a café, headphones in, learning Arabic with the help of an online voice. I couldn’t go back to the old me, so if I had no demon to bolster my intelligence and language skills, I would do it myself. I would not let it win. I would become powerful and strong on my own, become the host we both wanted me to be. I didn’t need to sense demons to find one. I just had to wait for the Church to phone me. While the demon made it easier to exorcise them, I’d performed enough exorcisms that I was confident I could do it alone. I didn’t need to wrench open their chests and eat their hearts.

A news report on the TV showed the tomb I’d discovered, with people carefully digging around it. The entrance had been exposed. Pictures of the colourful murals flashed up. This was headline news. A new, exciting discovery of a monster’s tomb. I scowled. I wouldn’t even get the glory of discovering it. My greatest achievement would be attributed to someone else. A sketching of a woman’s face appeared on screen. My body went still. It looked like me. I typed the words on the TV into Google translate. I was being credited with the tomb’s discovery. I was also being accused of tomb robbing. They had found the opened sarcophagus and concluded I’d stolen whatever was inside.

Now I really hated my demon.

I caught the first flight home before I was arrested. At least the Egyptians had stopped impaling grave robbers. I’d probably receive a lifetime ban from the country, but at least I wouldn’t be skewered on a pole, my body left in the desert as a warning to tourists.

I spent my days at the library and my nights learning Latin and finding out everything I could about Ammut, demons and the occult. From my research and my hazy memories of what happened in the tomb, I concluded that the vision of Ammut I’d seen had been the ka, and the demon that had been possessing me was the ba. I hadn’t been harbouring a demon, but Ammut’s personality in demon form. Now the ka and ba were reunited and would be looking for a body. The Church didn’t ring. I swapped my research to hunting for possessed people. The trouble was, until possession reached the oppression stage, it was difficult to tell it apart from an ordinary haunting

After a month, I found something. A woman in Venice developed a brain tumour and started speaking Latin as well as undergoing unpleasant personality changes. I smiled. That was no brain tumour.

I arrived in Marco Polo airport the next morning and caught the Alilaguna blue line ferry to Venice. I disembarked at Fondamente Nove, which was by the Cannaregio area where the woman lived. I eventually found her apartment which overlooked a canal, and picked the lock to the main entrance. There was no answer at her door so I sat in the lobby on a tired, old settee and waited.

Hours passed. Was this even the right place? What if I’d come all this way and she really did have a brain tumour? I walked over the bridge into another alley, crossed another canal and found myself on Strada Nova. I stopped at a Dutch chip shop and took my cone of chips back to the lobby. I knocked on the woman’s door and after receiving no answer, returned to what I’d dubbed The Settee of Despair.

Night fell and as I was falling asleep, the main door opened and a woman headed for the apartment. I waited until she’d let herself in before knocking on the door.

“Gabriella?”

She nodded, looking confused.

“My name’s Asta. I’m from the Institute of Parapsychological Research. I read about you in the news. I can help you.”

“With my brain tumour?”

“With your demon.”

“Demon?” Her eyes widened.

“I don’t think you have a brain tumour. I think you’re possessed.”

“I saw the tumour on the scan.”

“Did it look like a tumour? Or did the doctors seem confused?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did it have its own brain activity? Or was it a dark mass?”

“They said it must’ve been there from birth, that maybe it was a twin I absorbed, because it showed signs of being…alive.”

Demon. I knew it.

“May I come in?”

***

I left the next morning, smirking as I walked down the ‘Nothing to Declare’ area of the airport. Smuggling a demon wasn’t illegal. My head pounded, nausea sloshed in my stomach and every part of me ached like I’d rolled down a mountain. I was ready to bite out the throat of the next person who walked too slowly in front of me. I’d forgotten how difficult the transition was. Similar to adjusting to new medication and could last either days or weeks. This demon didn’t feel like my other one, and it wasn’t as powerful, but it would do until I could get mine back. Like having a courtesy car while yours is getting repaired.

I spent a few days in bed, alternating between vomiting repeatedly and writhing in a hallucination-fuelled fever while my body adjusted to the demon’s presence. My bed sheets were soaked in sweat. I placed a towel down on top of them when I felt strong enough to crawl to the bathroom to rinse out my sick bowl and wipe a cold, wet flannel over my burning skin. A mini fridge/freezer beside my bed contained cold drinks and ice lollies, which was all I could keep down.

On day seven, I was able to shuffle downstairs. I hadn’t vomited for twenty four hours and needed to make up for lost time. I spread a map on the table, grabbed a crystal and channelled mine and my demon’s energy into it.

“Find my demon.”

Maybe my demon hadn’t found a suitable host. Or maybe the integration was taking longer. Because I’d been possessed, it was easier and quicker for the new demon to possess me. My demon’s new host may not be strong enough and could die before the integration stage. Or be exorcised. Just because the Church hadn’t phoned me didn’t mean they hadn’t been performing exorcisms. I killed a man in front of them. I probably wasn’t their favourite any more.

I visualised the canopic jar, Ammut, and remembered how my demon felt then focused it on the crystal. It twitched. I cut my finger, squeezing it until blood dripped onto the crystal.

“Show me where you are.”

The crystal twirled and shuddered. I guided my hand over the map. The crystal spun, its movements becoming frantic. Heat travelled up the chain, burning my fingers.

“Ow!”

I dropped it. The crystal landed on the map, leaving a scorch mark.

Egypt.

Where I was a wanted criminal.

***

Fortunately, the Egyptian authorities didn’t know the name of their mystery tomb robber, so my passport didn’t activate any warrants. For a quick disguise, I shaved my head then panicked every time I passed a reflective surface as even I didn’t recognise myself. Which meant the people who’d given my description to the police, wouldn’t either.

When I landed in Egypt, I performed another blood crystal divination ritual to narrow down the area where Ammut could be. The map indicated Cynopolis. I pulled out my phone to research it. Cynopolis was the city of the dog, home to the Cult of Anubis in upper Egypt from 1600BC – 1200BCE. The temple dedicated to Anubis seemed the most likely place for my demon to hide. I covered my head and face with a scarf and made my way to Cynopolis.

Recent excavations at the temple had revealed statues of Anubis. I hoped there were no workers there when I arrived. It would be hard to try and recapture my demon while trying not to destroy delicate archaeological digs. I would wait for nightfall.

When the day was cloaked in darkness, I headed for the temple ruins. My skin tingled as I neared the stones, familiarity pulsing through my veins. My demon was here. Stronger. I crept around one of the statues, weaving through the labyrinth of ruins.

“You found me. You’re smarter than I gave you credit for.”

“Out of all the tourists you could have taken that day, you picked me. I doubt it was for my dress sense.”

“It was your amorality. I needed a host who wouldn’t exorcise me the first time I killed a person. Your intelligence was a bonus.”

Being told I was borderline psychopathic by the devourer of the dead wasn’t the compliment I’d hoped for. Luckily, now the demon was no longer inside me, it had no access to my thoughts or movements. I crouched behind another statue and removed the Phurba and my notebook from my bag. I lit a candle, placing the book beside it and found the repossession ritual.

“What are you doing?”

“You need a host.” I began reciting the ritual.

“Not you.”

“Yes me! We’ve killed people and demons, Ammut. The demons that are hunting for you, are hunting for me too. They will tear me apart. I will not die for you.”

I raised my voice, stepping closer. Ammut backed away. My words bound her. Her crocodilian eyes burned red with fury. I lunged forward, stabbing the Phurba into the area where her heart would have been had she been alive. Her screams echoed around the ruins. I sank to my knees, plunging the Phurba into my own heart. My screams entwined with Ammut’s, haunting us as my blood fed the ground beneath me, soaking into the base of the Anubis statue. The stones fed on my life force, my blood snaking around Anubis’ stone skin, staining his grey eyes crimson.

Pain exploded through my body, darkness stalking my vision as my wound wept its scarlet tears. Blackness crawled through my veins, Ammut’s spirit torturing me, healing me until we were bound together by blood. The Phurba tumbled to the floor. I staggered to my feet, my bloodied hands grabbing the statue for support. The candle by my book extinguished, smoke drifting through the darkness like a ghost haunting its grave.

I gathered my items and put them back in my bag, finding my way out of the ruins and walking until I reached civilisation. People glanced my way then hurried on, averting their gazes. Maybe they sensed the power within me, or maybe they recognised me from the news and were wary of the tomb raider’s curse. I pulled out my phone to activate Maps. I paused. My reflection in the blackened screen looked…off. I quickly pressed the camera app and turned it to selfie mode. My face looked normal.

Except for the crocodilian eyes.

I was now the devourer of the dead.

The End

The Swarm

By

David Watkins

Fifty-two minutes to home.

Michael stared at the stream of red lights and swore to himself. Why had he left it so late to leave the office? Why was he stuck in traffic yet again? Why wasn’t he home yet? He’d told Ellie he’d be back by six, and it was already way past that. She’d be worried now, their morning argument forgotten, as she watched the news with mounting panic.

He would have called, but there was no signal here, not since the last Swarm had swept through and destroyed everything in its wake. He glared at the red lights, willing them to roll forward, even if it was just a couple of feet. At least then he’d be making progress.

His SatNav showed a junction only a hundred yards ahead, and he could take it, go across Dartmoor to get home. It would be far quicker than sitting on the A38, but of course Dartmoor was an advised no-go zone now, which went a long way to explaining the backlog of traffic.

He could pull onto the hard shoulder and reach the turning in seconds. Michael pulled at his earlobe, then scratched his chin which felt almost like sandpaper to him. He hated the feeling, longed for a razor to make his face smooth again. He’d missed his morning shave – the argument had made him late.

Long ago, Ellie had loved running her hands over his face, marvelling at the smoothness. A dim and distant memory now – their closeness disappearing with her weight gain, and his new job.

Right now, Michael could do with a military escort to just get home. If only he hadn’t stayed at work. If only he hadn’t pointed out her weight gain before he left the house that morning. If only he hadn’t wasted so much of the day talking to Katie. If only, if only.

He looked at himself in the rear-view mirror, but did not like what he saw.

Cheater.

He hadn’t done anything with Katie, so he knew he was being harsh on himself, but at what point did thought become betrayal?

Another glance at the clock showed time had crawled a little further, even if he hadn’t. If he was home by half seven, he could get to the local shop, buy some overpriced flowers for her and a beer or two for himself. Maybe they could have a chat, put some things right. He nodded, decision made.

He flicked through Spotify, turned the volume up. With Frank Turner in full on punk mode blaring, he sped onto the hard shoulder and streaked past the once more stationary cars. The lights of stationary traffic disappeared from view, replaced by an open road and the darkness of Dartmoor.

Fifty minutes to home.

Like most rural areas, Dartmoor had been decimated by the first Swarm, and hit harder by subsequent ones. It had never been the most populous of places, but now it was devoid of life. Towns abandoned, villages collapsing to ruin. The whole area abandoned to the Swarm.

The military had taken action, firebombing areas as soon as they knew the civilians had left – one way or another. Despite the spin from the government, and the news’ channels, there was no real evidence fire stopped the Swarm. Slowed it maybe, but not stop.

These days, every home had a room that was completely sealable. A Swarm didn’t last long anymore. They just swept through areas and moved on if they didn’t find anything to eat. Most homes knew to not even leave snacks out when a Swarm warning hit. The larger motorways like the M25 had Swarm shelters regularly spaced around it, but none had made it to the South-West yet.

Still, fifty minutes and he’d be home. There hadn’t been a Swarm in the South-West for over a month, so he figured as long as he made good time, he could outrun one. His v-dub Golf was pretty pacy after all. He flicked all the vents shut on his dashboard and doublechecked all the windows were shut tight.

Better to be safe, he thought.

The darkness on Dartmoor was absolute. Before the Swarm, there would be pinpricks of light in the darkness revealing the location of farmhouses and hamlets, now there was nothing. His full beams revealed grass, bracken and gorse as he sped down a road that no longer had a name. He made small manoeuvres to avoid potholes, and bits of broken tarmac, but managed to keep the pace up.

This was so much better than being stuck on the A38.

Forty minutes to home.

He gripped the steering wheel a little harder, his mouth suddenly dry. Why was he rushing to get home again? Ellie, much, much bigger than when they’d first met, would already have stuffed her face and would she really be grateful for some shitty flowers from a shop? Would that make up for the argument?

He imagined her chubby fingers gripping the stems as she moved to kiss him. Why didn’t he just give the flowers to Katie instead? Katie, with her thin arms, flat stomach and legs she liked to show off by wearing increasingly shorter skirts? What would her gratitude look like?

He dragged his attention away from Katie’s lovely legs and focussed on the road. Once upon a time, this road took traffic from Princetown to Moretonhampstead, and his SATNAV still showed the latter as his destination. From Moretonhampstead, it would be a short trip North to Whiddon Down, where he lived with Ellie.

Twenty minutes to home.

The interminable road was coming to an end, and he slowed down as he entered the small town. Buildings flanked the road: initially businesses then domestic dwellings, and they all had the same thing in common. They were ruined. Most missed roofs, and even in the dark he could see the dark soot patches caused by fire.

The Swarm had been so deadly to small places like this, and the military had wasted no time in trying to stop them. He drove past a downed helicopter, its ruined shell testament to the problem of airborne weaponry against an airborne foe with superior numbers. Missiles and firebombs worked, but only short term. Military strategy quickly moved to containment, and then advice for living with them.

Numbers and sightings were dropping too. Over the last six months, there had been several Swarm events, with the peak coming in the summer months. As far as he could remember, September and October had seen no Swarms. Perhaps it was over, or at least over until next Spring?

Michael didn’t want to hope for that. It’s the hope that kills you. He wasn’t sure who had first said that, or why – probably over some inconsequential sporting event – but it was true. If the Swarm was truly over, would he be able to leave Ellie? Her weight gain slowly ruining her figure and her looks, but would she be able to regain it? Could he tactfully suggest she do some exercise?

He and Ellie had met at the height of the panic about the Swarm and the terror, upheaval and shock of so many deaths forced them into a relationship he was now regretting. He was sure she felt the same. They’d only been together about a year after all.

Maybe she’d be relieved if he ended it?

Don’t be a shit. Work at it. Don’t let one pretty lady turn your head.

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and turned the music up again. Maybe Frank would drown out his thoughts. As soon as he touched the volume up button on the steering wheel, the music cut out. He glared at the stereo, even as a voice came from the speakers.

“A Swarm has been reported on Dartmoor. All people in the surrounding area are advised to find shelter as soon as possible. If you cannot find shelter, seal all windows and vents and get under cover.”

The message repeated two more times. Fuck. The SatNav glowed in the light of the dashboard, showing nineteen minutes to home. He nodded to himself – it wasn’t far. He could make that and be in the shelter before the Swarm hit.

He was about to press the accelerator when a car came from nowhere and t-boned him clean off the road.

Two hours twenty-six minutes to home - walking

Michael opened his eyes. Glass sprinkled his face and wrists, blood coating both. He had a quick spasm of panic when he saw his wrist bleeding so heavily, but the glass seemed to have missed his arteries. His left arm felt fine, but he couldn’t move his right. His legs also felt okay, but he hadn’t tried standing yet.

The left-hand side of his car was a mangled mess. If he had been carrying a passenger, they would have been killed. Metal twisted and bent into the car and the roof had caved onto the front and rear seats. If he had been an inch taller, the roof would have hit him too. Perhaps some of the metal would have broken his skull, smashing into his brain. An ignominious end, but at least he would never have known.

His car was jammed up against a house, with the other vehicle holding it in place. Its front grille had crumpled with the impact, and steam billowed out of it. He could smell the distinctive odour of spilt fuel, and fresh panic rose within him.

He couldn’t get out of either door. His was tight up against a wall, and the left was obviously ruined. Somehow his seat belt had come lose, and he flapped at the deflated airbag to get it out of his way. He contorted in his seat, raising his feet above the steering wheel. Pain flared in his right shoulder, making him cry out.

With both feet, he kicked at the ruined windscreen, getting the remaining glass out of the way. He used his good arm to push himself off the seat, sliding through the hole he’d created. Jagged pieces of safety glass tugged at his shirt but didn’t cut him.

Cold air snapped at him as he staggered free of his car. His shirt was thin, great for the office, but really not up to the job of keeping him warm now. He shivered, the act sending fresh pain through his right shoulder.

Free of his car, he could see the damage more clearly. His vehicle was ruined and looked around half the width it had been when he set out across the moor. He held back a sob as he realised just how lucky he had been – literally centimetres from a very, very different outcome and possibly death.

He turned his attention to the vehicle that hit him. It was a four by four, big truck, the kind favoured by farmers back before the Swarm.

The Swarm. Michael swore again, anger at the stupid driving of the Ford Ranger. Ignoring the smell of fuel he stalked around to the driver’s side and yanked the door open.

“You fucking idiot! You could’ve killed me!” he screamed, but then he saw the woman and his anger died in his throat.

She was covered in blood. Face coated, arms, legs and clothes. Her head rested on the collapsed airbag covering the steering wheel. She groaned, stirred, and sat back in her seat, blinking rapidly. It all happened so quickly that Michael jumped back, startled.

“Help,” she said.

“You fucking idiot,” Michael said, but his heart wasn’t in it.

She touched her face, and her look of alarm grew as she saw the blood on her hands. She undid her seatbelt and slid out of the truck with more grace than Michael had managed, although she stumbled as her feet hit the ground. Michael caught her, held her until she was steady.

“Where did you come from?”

“I could ask you the same question.” Michael stepped back, surveying the damage to her truck. The left-hand side wing and the front grille were both buckled inwards, but other than that, her truck looked like it might still work.

“I didn’t think anyone would be here,” she said, as if that were enough of an apology. “I was trying to get home, before-”

He nodded. “Me too. Guess you fucked that.” His anger was building again. Despite the blood, the woman seemed to be okay. Michael had never hit a woman, but he was prepared to make an exception.

“Andrea,” she said, proffering her right hand. Her left was in a golfing glove. Light from the headlights reflected off Michael’s wreck and showed the blood coating her. She wiped her hand on her jeans, but it only served to smear the blood around more. Instead, she shrugged and grinned at him. “Sorry.”

“Michael,” he said. “Don’t suppose you have a sat-phone?” He’d already checked his mobile, but predictably enough he had no service. Another thing the Swarm had ruined.

She shook her head. “No.”

He had been meaning to buy one for a couple of months but had to save for it. It didn’t help how much of their money went on stock-piling food these days.

“You ok?” he asked next. “You’re covered in blood.”

Her lips became a thin line, then twisted into a snarl. “I’m fine.”

Michael stared at her for a few moments, wondering where her anger had come from. She’d hit him after all. This was all her fault, and with the Swarm warning-

“We can’t stay here,” he said suddenly. His legs felt weak under him, trembled as he thought of the Swarm getting closer and closer. Was there anywhere in this village still intact enough to protect them? Given the ruins he’d seen so far, he doubted that very much.

He swore he could hear a low-level humming under the hiss of the cooling engines. Michael turned away from Andrea, glancing back down the road he’d driven in on. He couldn’t see anything. It was dark down there.

“Hear that?” he said.

Andrea tilted her head to one side, then shook it. “No. Something wrong?”

“Didn’t you get the emergency alert?”

“Course I did. What do you think made me accelerate?”

“We need to find shelter,” he said. There was definitely a buzzing noise. Faint, yes, but definitely there, and definitely getting louder.

“I think my truck will work,” she said. Andrea looked at the front of her truck again, seeing for the first time the driver’s side wheel was off the ground, and the right-hand side of her truck was held up by Michael’s car.

Michael looked down the street again. Was something moving there? A patch of darkness moving against another patch of darkness? Paranoid. Don’t be stupid. Black can’t move against black.

“I think you’d better hurry,” he said. “We need to get out of here.”

Andrea followed his gaze, and squinted, trying to make out more of the darkness. “On it,” she said. “You coming with?”

“I can’t stay here,” he said. “Besides, my shoulder is fucked. I need a hospital.”

She nodded and clambered back into the truck. The engine started on the second attempt, roaring to life and Michael had never been so relieved to hear such a sound. Reverse lights came on, illuminating the street behind Andrea’s truck, and he saw a small road that was easy to miss. Well, that explains where she came from.

Metal screeched as she tried to pull the truck free of Michael’s wrecked car. Her rear tyres spun on the tarmac, but the truck didn’t move. Andrea wound the window down.

“It’s stuck,” she said. “Can you push?”

Michael looked at her truck, wedged over the ruined roof of his car. The buzzing noise was louder now, closing in. Michael didn’t know how fast a Swarm moved, just that they were fast. He had no hope of outrunning it on foot.

He ran to his car and clambered onto the roof. It groaned in protest, but held his weight, at least for now. He had to use his left arm as the pain in his right was too great every time he moved it, and he pushed at the front of the truck.

It didn’t move.

The approaching buzzing sound was louder than the engine.

Getting closer.

Michael cried out again. Why had he come across the moor? Why had he stayed so late at the office? Why was he flirting with Katie when he had a perfectly good woman at home? Sure she was putting on weight, but that was okay, right? When had he become such a shit?

The buzzing increased.

He threw his weight at the truck, bracing his legs on the wall behind him and he pushed with all the force his good shoulder could muster. It didn’t move.

“Hurry!” Andrea yelled. “I can see them.”

He didn’t dare look. Instead he found reserves of strength he didn’t know he possessed and pushed. This time he heard something snap. Petrol fumes filled the air.

“Try again,” he yelled.

A crescendo of noise filled the air. Easily heard over the whine of the protesting engine.

Andrea revved the engine hard, then threw it into reverse. Metal screeched again - an awful noise - but so much better than the sound of the approaching Swarm. Something popped, then screeched once more and then the truck was free, reversing back up the street into darkness.

Michael jumped off his car, watching Andrea reverse. “No!” he screamed, his voice drowned out by the noise of the Swarm.

Then the headlights grew larger. She was coming back and spun into the street. “Get in!” she screamed, but he only saw her lips moving. He ran, probably the fastest he had ever run in his life - Ellie was not the only one gaining a few pounds - and yanked at the door to the truck. With his right arm. He screamed as hot pain lanced down his arm and back, but quickly changed arms and jumped inside. Sobbing, he pulled the door shut behind him, but Andrea had already floored the accelerator and they leapt forward.

Michael glanced in the wing mirror, saw the black mass covering his car, blotting out the lights, but it got smaller and smaller as Andrea gunned the accelerator, sending them out of Moretonhampstead and back onto the moor.

Thirty Minutes to Exeter Westpoint Arena

Adrenaline faded fast and he was exhausted. Michael tried to move his shoulder, but fresh fire burned there, kindling flaring into actual pain. Neither had spoken since they’d left Moretonhampstead, and he was grateful for the silence – anything was better than that godforsaken buzzing sound.

He stretched his legs as much as he could, and glanced at the display in the middle of the dashboard. His eyes opened wider, all tiredness gone in an instant.

“Where the fuck are we going?”

Andrea didn’t bother to even look at him. “Exeter. Westpoint.” She tapped the screen with a nail. “Thought you could read.”

“No, no, no!” he cried. “I need to get home.”

“And I’ll get you there,” she said. Her eyes were still fixed on the road ahead, constantly scanning for trouble in the darkness of the moor. They’d just driven through the hamlet of Doccombe, but it was even more desolate and broken than Moretonhampstead. They were back in darkness now.

“Why the fuck are we going to Westpoint?”

“I have something for the docs.”

Westpoint Arena no longer hosted bands, or massive fairs. These days it was the home of the military presence in the South-West. It was a well-known ‘secret’ the military doctors were investigating the Swarm there.

“What kind of thing?”

She shook her head, the blood on her face glistening in the gloom. “Not going there, buddy, we just met.”

“I deserve to know. You got me into this mess.”

“We both did. You were driving way too fast and so was I.” She gave him a grin that was more of a grimace. “This is a fifty-fifty.”

“Take me fucking home,” he shouted.

“I’m driving, dickhead. We go where I want.”

He stewed on that for a few more minutes. “How far behind do you think the Swarm is?”

She shrugged. “No clue. Can’t see them, can’t hear them, so a ways I think. Why?”

“I really need a piss and you haven’t got any bottles in here.”

“Left in a hurry.” She didn’t elaborate further. “I could use a piss too.”

Then she slammed the brakes on so suddenly, the lack of a bottle became an unnecessary concern. Tyres screeched on the tarmac as they struggled for purchase, and the back fishtailed with such a jar he thought they would keep sliding into the dark of Dartmoor and then they really would be screwed. Andrea somehow kept the vehicle under control and they stopped with a shudder and groan.

“Fuck!” he said, trying to control his breathing.

“Yeah,” she said. They peered over the bonnet and saw a pile of rubble on the road. It was not a big pile, around five or so big pieces of stone, but each stone could have taken a tyre out.

He peered into the darkness outside his passenger window and could see a shell of a house there. It had clearly collapsed, presumably recently, and some of the stone had ended up in the road.

“Can you go round?”

She shook her head. “There’s a drop there, some kind of ditch.” She pointed to her right, but he couldn’t see anything in the darkness. “Can you move them?”

He looked in the wing mirror, but all was black. Was anything moving there? He really couldn’t tell. Instead, he turned his gaze to Andrea and gave her a withering look.

“I’ll stay here, keep the engine running. Any sign of the Swarm and we take our chances going over the stone. Agreed?” She threw a smile his way, and he thought about how nice that smile would be if she wasn’t still covered in blood.

Stop thinking with your dick.

He sighed heavily and slipped out of the truck. He’d forgotten how cold it was until he left the warmth of the cabin behind. The first stone he came to wasn’t very big, and he rolled it to the side of the road, heaving it into the ditch Andrea had seen. All of the others were far bigger, and as he tried to move one, it didn’t budge. He tried with both hands and his legs gave way as his shoulder erupted in a pain so intense he thought he was going to black out.

Andrea was beside him in an instant. Her gloved hand on his back, other on his arm and he realised she was holding him up.

“You okay?”

He shook his head. “My shoulder.”

She nodded, and looked at the stone. “I’ll do it.”

“Sorry,” he said and hated how pathetic he sounded.

“Go keep watch,” she said and grunted as she picked up one of the larger stones. She was clearly much stronger than him. “Any sign of those fuckers and you shout. Loud.”

He left her to it, his guilt notching up another ratch as she grunted when she picked up a stone. Some heat came out of the cabin still and he stood in the passenger doorway, relishing the warm air blowing from the vents. Already the pain in his shoulder was subsiding, returning to the warm ache it had been before he tried lifting the stone.

He turned back to the road, looking over the truck’s flatbed and staring into the darkness. A lumpy tarpaulin in the rear bed caught his eye. He frowned and quickly checked the mirror. There was no way she could see him. Was this what she was taking to Westpoint? What was it? Why had it caught his eye?

Even as the question formed in his head, he knew why.

It had moved. Or, more accurately, something underneath it had moved.

He leant in and lifted the corner of the tarp, revealing a foot clad in a Timberland boot. He gasped as he lifted the tarp further. Now a leg, in jeans, covered in blood. Further, to reveal a shirt, stained and ripped. Around the rips, lots of wounds.

Stab wounds.

The driver’s door to the truck slammed shut and suddenly she was the other side of the truck to him, glaring. “I told you not to look.”

“You said you wouldn’t tell me. Big difference. Who is this?” He pulled the tarp all the way back, revealing a man about the same age as Andrea. The same black hair, the same upturned nose. “Your brother?”

She nodded.

“He’s been stabbed,” he said, slowly, carefully, not wanting the implication to be clear.

“Yeah,” she said. “I stabbed him.”

He dropped the tarp, and took a step back. “Why?”

She was holding a knife, leaning on the side of the truck. Where had the knife come from? His mind wouldn’t answer that. Had it been in the truck? Had it been in her belt? All he could focus on was the size of it – a butcher’s knife, thick and keen.

“Look,” she said and indicated with the blade.

Near one of the wounds (the stab wound, the wound she made to her own brother) was a small lump. As he watched, even in the dim reflected light he saw it, saw what she was pointing at.

It moved.

Andrea opened the rear door of the truck and returned with a torch.

“Watch,” she said. Her voice was flat, disconnected. She turned the torch on and played it along the length of her brother’s corpse. Under his clothes, more things moved in random directions, sometimes colliding but more often orbiting each other and then shooting off at tangents.

“What the fuck?”

“Yeah.” She turned the torch off, and somehow it got worse. “I found him like this a couple of hours ago. He was trying to get the lumps out of him, and when he succeeded, the thing jumped out of his hand and burrowed back into him.” She gestured at herself. “Most of this blood is his. At first, he tried to cut them all out, then he begged me to, then he grabbed the knife and stabbed himself.” The blade, still in her right hand, stabbed at his neck, where a large gash was so big it must have nearly decapitated him.

“I did the rest.” She paused, took a moment to get her breathing back under control. “I was trying to kill the fuckers.”

Michael took a step back, away from the truck. He knew his mouth was open, jaw working but no sound coming out.  All the pain in his shoulder was forgotten, but his legs felt weak, like he was about to collapse. There was a rushing sound in his head, and the world became even darker at the edges. He knew what was coming, even as she held up her left hand.

She undid the strap and pulled the glove off.

“Then I saw this.”

On the back of her hand was a small lump. Unlike the ones in the corpse, this was stationary, but as he watched, she picked up the torch and shone a light on it. As soon as the beam landed on her skin, the lump wobbled and shook, then expanded and split into two. There was no sound, but Michael imagined a ‘pop’ all the same.

“The fuckers are burrowing into us now,” she said, her voice still flat. “You know how we knew they used cattle, but this is new.”

He took another step back, breathed in deeply. The world came back into focus, and then he heard it.

That infernal buzzing.

Faint this time, muffled like it was coming from underwater.

“They’re in me,” Andrea said. “I don’t have much time.”

He wanted to grab her, wanted to scream. They had no time. She was out of time, her fate linked with her brother’s. Her destiny was to be an incubator, just like the corpse in her truck.

“Why don’t you let me drive,” he said, finding his voice. “I think, I think,” he stammered, not sure how he was going to finish the sentence.

“You think what?” She wasn’t looking at him anymore. Wouldn’t make eye contact. “Your shoulder. You can’t drive.”

He could see her face clearly in the torchlight, just as a lump travelled up her neck, stopping in her cheek. She slapped at it and screamed in pain. When her hand came away, half her cheek was hanging off, blood pouring from the wound. She looked like someone had tried to peel her skin from her.

He’s about to hatch. Michael couldn’t get the words out, couldn’t say what needed to be said. I need to go.

You’re a dead woman, you just don’t know it yet.

Buzzing again, still indistinct, but getting louder.

“Let me drive,” he said again. “I’ll get us there.” He’d stomach the pain in his shoulder if it meant leaving here.

Tears fell, as she gasped in pain, tying to put her cheek back onto her face. “I don’t want to die, Michael.”

“I’ll get us there.” He tried to put more conviction into the words this time, but came woefully short. The only thing he was sure of was the longer they stayed here, the more dangerous it became. The more likely they would both die.

What would be the point of that?

“Keys are in it,” she said, and pointed at the driver’s side with the knife. The gesture did not fill him with confidence. Her hand was still clamped to her cheek, and blood was slowing around the wound. It all added to her demonic visage.

He swallowed, mouth dry, a hot tangy mess in there. Was she going to attack?

The buzzing was louder still. Louder, then fainter. Muffled by the tarpaulin, yes, but also by skin. The bugs under her brother’s skin were burrowing out, he was sure of it. He did not want to be here when they actually broke the surface.

He walked towards the front of the truck, circling clockwise towards the open door. With each step, he kept the truck between him and Andrea, watching her for any sudden movements.

Using the door as a shield, he stopped,. “You going to get in?” He was afraid of her answer, could hear the fear in his own voice.

“Sure,” she nodded, and fresh blood pulsed between her fingers. Another lump travelled up her neck. She looked up at him then, eyes wide.

“I’m fucked, aren’t I?”

Twenty five minutes to Westpoint

“No, no, come on, it’s not much further.”

“We won’t get there,” she cried, taking a step towards him.

Even with the door between them, he still took a step back. She raised the knife.

“I don’t want to die like this!” She was sobbing now, whole body shaking and ugly tears screwing up her face, leaving clean lines through the blood. Two more lumps appeared above her t-shirt, travelling up her neck. One reached the severed patch of skin, and for a brief second, he thought he saw a pair of antennae sticking out of the wound, but then they were gone.

She sank to the floor, still holding the knife.

“Take me to Westpoint,” she said. “Let something good come of this.”

“Wait-”

Too late. She plunged the knife into her neck, and it parted her skin with ease, cutting through skin and muscle. Blood geysered out of the wound, splashing over the side of the truck and arcing high into the night sky only to fall back like rain.

He sank to his knees, watching helplessly as she coughed blood from her mouth, before keeling over. Blood continued to pump from the wound for a while longer. He just wept for this woman he’d only just met. He stood, wiping at his face. That noise was definitely getting louder, which meant he was running out of time. How long had her brother been in the truck? He had no idea. Could he get her in? Could he get them all to Westpoint before, well, before?

Get home to Ellie.

This was not his problem. Saving his marriage was or at least living another day until he could see Katie again. Either option was better than racing to Exeter and dying in the process.

What the fuck is wrong with you? Ellie. Ellie. Ellie all the way.

Katie.

The buzzing was suddenly loud, then louder. The left-hand side of Andrea’s brother was still covered with the tarp, but it was moving, like a bunch of miniature snakes writhed underneath it. His skin was distended, peaks rising in the exposed areas. Smaller peaks rose under the clothes, writhing around in ever decreasing circles.

Michael watched, horrified. He knew he should move. Get away, far, far away, but fear and horror had him rooted to the spot.  He knew what was about to happen but couldn’t tear his gaze away.

The corpse exploded. There was a moment where it seemed to collapse in on itself, but then it expanded, every bit of skin stretching to the point of translucence before tearing around the horrific wounds. Any part of the body not near a cut erupted like a volcano, bugs pouring from the holes.

The Swarm burst into the air, and almost immediately went for him.

He leapt up and ran for the truck but slipped in Andrea’s blood. He banged his shin on the footwell of the truck, hard enough for him to feel something in his leg give. Hot pain lanced up his leg, and he howled as if that would make it hurt less. He hopped to the side, lifting his leg and hitting his shoulder on the doorframe instead. The dying fire burst back into life, sending so much pain through him he nearly passed out for the second time in the last five minutes.

It was nothing compared to the pain he felt as the Swarm engulfed him.

His final thought was not of Katie, but of Ellie, and how she’d be giving birth in a few weeks on her own.

The End

Afterword

So, you made it to the end of The Horror Collection: Onyx Edition. I hope you enjoyed it. This is book 29 in my most popular series. The more people who read the books, the more I will publish. Please consider leaving a review or mentioning it on your social media, it really helps. Thanks again for picking up the book.

Kevin J. Kennedy

Author of Nothing is Real, Halloween Land & The Clown

When author Kevin J. Kennedy began receiving unmarked boxes filled with journals and scattered notes from an unknown sender, he was baffled. But confusion soon gave way to obsession. The mysterious stranger’s story drew him in, each page revealing tantalising fragments of a man consumed by his perception of flaws in the universe—and by a haunting belief that nothing is real. As Kevin sifted through the cryptic entries, he became consumed—piecing together the puzzle, chasing the truth, and desperately trying to uncover why these journals had found their way to him.

A dark novella, told in epistolary fashion, where mystery unravels into an exploration of existentialism and nihilism.