

Journal of Speculative Fiction

Issue 1 – October 2011

Copyright

Cygnus Journal of Speculative Fiction

Published by Sky Rabbit Books at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Cygnus

Cover: "Light Beam from Above" by Markus Gann / Bigstock.com

Editor-in-Chief: Casey J. Winters

Assistant Editor: Valerie Winters

cygnusjournal.com

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the authors and editors.

**Table of Contents**

The Water-Horse Whisperer by R. S. Pyne

Space #22 (art) by Denny E. Marshall

The Hunter by Chris Castle

Double Ring World (art) by Denny E. Marshall

Dream Job by Richard Flores IV

Space #24 (art) by Denny E. Marshall

Mysteries That Remain by Milan Smith

Robot Man (art) by Denny E. Marshall

Silent Pact at Pope Lick Trestle by Alex Duvall

Editor's Note

The Water-Horse Whisperer

by R. S. Pyne

Aylmer Albion watched his third son Drake stand in shallows while water-horse foals played around him. The foals were shining things that would soon be as deadly as their mother. The silver-white mare grazed nearby, unconcerned, for she trusted the boy.

Drake had been born with the Goddess-blessed ability to calm the water-horse instinct to drown unwary travelers. He was fifteen years old now but with a man's responsibility. The interlaced horse tattoos on his shoulders and back were still healing. Tall but not yet grown to full height, he moved with a fluid grace that came as easily as breathing. As a child, he had always been strange and distant; he made no friends and did not seem to want them. The threads of his destiny were drawn out long ago, identified by an ancient Fate Speaker passing through the village on her way somewhere else. The crossing was safer now as long as he stayed to honor the covenant.

Aylmer made sure the mare saw him approach, careful to make no sudden movements and to keep his thoughts calm. She would not react well to fear, even though he was terrified.

"Father." Drake's voice held no words of welcome, for he preferred to be left alone.

The foals chased each other into deep water, too engrossed in their game to notice the stranger. They dived beneath the ripples like so many swift-moving, silvery fish. Harmless now, they had been born with a predatory nature more akin to wolf than horse.

"You did not need to come."

Aylmer gave a shrug and smiled. "If we left it to you, you would not return at all."

The covenant still allowed three victims each year, compared to the hundreds that died before it took effect. One drowning at Beltane, another at Lughnasada and the last at Samhain was a small price, and the people of Hard Riding paid it gladly. The fact that they took care not to go near the river and forgot to warn travelers was never mentioned. Each time, Drake left his post reluctantly—fetched back to a world that had never been his. He walked to shore as the mare came to meet him; wild, free spirits joined for a heartbeat before breaking apart again.

"Your mother will make a fuss, as she always does." Aylmer knew that his wife would have something to say to her youngest son—the typical, time-honored mother's litany of how thin he was, had he been eating properly, had he slept at all? He watched as the boy covered the tattoos with a tunic of black homespun, stylized horse heads still twisting on his arms. "Let her look after you, just for one day."

Drake shrugged, brushing an unruly shock of wind-styled dark hair out of his eyes. The silver-white mare blew clouds of sweet breath by way of a blessing. With Drake looking at her now, she was impossible to identify as a fierce meat eater, one of the most dangerous creatures in a land with more than its fair share of perils. By the morning, that herb scented exhalation would be tainted with the coppery smell of blood, liquid brown eyes still showing death lights. The boy ran a hand down her curving neck and then parted the mane to brush out a tangle of barbed burr weed. Water-horses allowed nobody else to take such liberties unless they were prey.

Unsuspecting travelers would come to the river and see a beautiful animal waiting for them, strangely tame even though it bore the marks of neither saddle nor bridle. They were happy to let you mount, got halfway across before they plunged in. Holy people and pilgrims got away with their lives, but got their robes wet; anyone else was dinner.

Drake did not want to be fussed over, blood ties already stretched as far as they would go. The other people in the village would stare, as they always did, whisper to each other and ignore the fact that they all owed him their safety. Aylmer watched the son he could never hope to understand and still felt a fierce pride over however the life thread had twisted. They walked together, neither feeling the need to fill the space with extra, unnecessary words. The Old Forest pressed around on all sides, gnarled, ancient oak trees silent witnesses that had seen it all before and would see it long after they were both dead and burnt to ashes.

The sudden beat of hooves on a well-laid path broke the reflective silence as a first-ranked noble's daughter thundered toward them. Her retinue struggled to keep up—maids and bodyguard with long-suffering looks on their faces. Their horses were lathered as if they had galloped for many miles without the chance to cool down; this was never wise so close to Epona's most sacred of rivers. The Goddess did not look kindly on riders who lacked consideration for their mounts, and on such a day, this lack would prove the girl's undoing.

"Get out of my way, peasants." She used her whip to clear a path. She was a sharp-voiced, spoiled beauty that had never been checked, disciplined or denied what she wanted. Having grown up in the luxury of a great lord's feasting hall, she had never known a moment of cold or hunger in her life and despised those who had no choice but to starve.

Aylmer stepped aside, seeing the dark look deepen on Drake's face, the far away promise that lingered in those blade-gray eyes. His son watched the girl ride away and then shrugged, not wasting another thought on someone who would not trouble the country for much longer. Water-horses saw exactly what their Whisperer showed them, the links stretched by distance but never quite severed. They would know that the Samhain tribute would soon arrive in fulfillment of the Covenant they had agreed to follow. On reflection, it could not happen to a nicer person.

The Hunter

by Chris Castle

I lay the traps just so and wait. If it follows the pattern of the last few days and goes left, I will capture it in the netting. I have re-enforced the trap with steel mesh so its claws will not be able to tear itself free. The same goes for, God help me, its teeth. If it goes right, I will take it with my rifle. By the time I settle into my spot it is dark; soon whatever stars are left in the sky will bloom. I bury myself amongst the rotted leaves, remembering to breathe downwind, so my frozen breath will not act as a signal and betray my position. I wait.

Years from now, if the world manages to repair itself, what will be the official reasons and statements offered? I know there are the facts and there is the truth; the gaps in-between the words are what new-born folk will have to seek out. The future: it seems like such a far away ideal now, almost a rumor. I know if I think too much about what happened and my role in it, I will go mad. The fact that I touch upon it from time to time has left my mind fractured enough. All I can offer in my defense is that we were trying to make things better, we honestly were. The fact that our actions led to the end of everything . . . well, to that I have no answer.

* * *

The day it happened, I remember looking out to the sky and thinking what a beautiful place the world was right then, in that moment. The sky was blue and there were no clouds; the only interruption was an airplane, its smoke trailing like string across the surface. It should have spoiled or disrupted the picture to some tiny degree, but it was quite the opposite in my eyes; indeed, it only made the image more perfect to have it touched with the slightest of imperfections.

As I walked down from the roof to the lab, I still felt as if it was going to be a good day; that perhaps we were on the verge of some sort of breakthrough. I slipped on my whites and snapped the equipment against my skin and I drew breath. Even as I stepped into the cubicle and felt the door close behind me, my mind was still outside, following the trail and matching it against the sky.

When it happened, I was measuring liquid in a beaker. I distinctly remember this, because the liquid itself was clear and when the alarm lit, a moment before the siren rang, it shone, turning the glass red. I winced at the sound of the alarm and my head immediately assumed it was a drill. The cold spike of fear I felt as I realized it was Monday and could not possibly be a test was like nothing I have known before or since. I have understood fear after that day and horror, too, but not stark, cool panic as I did in those first few minutes.

* * *

I adjust my position and fix the scope of my rifle. Even though I cannot feel the cold, I am aware of the area cooling. I look around and check the trees, as well as the ground. Many times since that first day, I have seen them scale into the trees like apes and move with awful, desperate grace. Nothing appears but the stars and the frost. Inside my gloves and my boots I crunch my fingers and toes, flinching for a moment when I feel one of my own, overgrown nails, snag against my socks. Like a claw, I think bleakly and am surprised to find myself almost laughing.

* * *

There are few words I know that could describe what happened in that first hour in our building; the closest I can think of is bedlam, pure and simple. Friends I had made since our work began died inside minutes. The pain they endured in that time was unimaginable. For days afterward I heard them in my head; not their screams or their cries but literally their bodies; how they tore apart, how they fell and popped and ripped. A week afterward, I looked at my face in a mirror and saw my ears, where I had gripped them, trying to block out the fresh memories of the sounds. Each of them was almost perforated by my nails, as if waiting for a new piercing.

I don't know how I made it out of the building and that is the truth of it. I fought, I ran, and I was lucky—and that's all there was to it. And then . . . and then I became the crazy guy you see in every big city. You know the men: sandwich boards around their necks, pronouncing the end of the world. I remember stepping out into the street and gasping, drawing in big, fat lumps of air and thinking _,_ _this is the last time I will be able to do this. This is the last time the world will not be infected_. I heard a scream and I put my hand up to my mouth, assuming it must have been me but not feeling the sound leave my throat. A woman was pointing at me and I glanced down to where she was looking; of course my clothes were covered in blood. People backed away from me and I was briefly impressed at their understanding of the situation until I realized they just thought I was your common variety murderer.

A policeman seized me and put me in the back of his car. It was the first time I'd been in the back of one since I was seventeen years old. I noticed how much more modern they looked now, with expensive seating and the equipment in front. I knew it was strange to be thinking like that as the world ended, but I was helpless by then, a victim of shock. The man in front looked back and asked me questions as the other drove. He was talking too quickly, and by the time I had processed one question, he had already moved onto the next. By the time we had reached the end of Main Street, it seemed to dawn on him he was giving me too many questions to handle and for the first time, it dawned on me that he might have been scared too; maybe it was his first time with a nut-job.

"Who did you kill?" he asked finally, as if deciding that was the easiest way to go. He was young looking, too young to be a cop, I decided, and I realized he was genuinely scared. _Good,_ I thought. _You should be_. "Who did you kill?"

"Everybody," I said quietly and looked away from him, back down the long street. Smoke was rising from my building and I saw the first few disturbances bubbling in the street beside it. The scientist in me started calculating how long it would be before the whole block started tearing into each other. I calculated eighteen minutes.

* * *

The flicker in the tree tops makes me turn at an angle and point the rifle straight-up. Nothing moves and I realize it was just a strong gust of wind. Although it has only been six weeks, the weather is already changing. If I am still alive at the end of the year, I think I will see snow, rain, sleet and sunshine all on the same day. It will be as impressive as it is heartbreaking, a wonder witnessed alone. I return to my position and check my sights, my scope still precise and measured.

* * *

It took almost twenty-three minutes in the end. I watched it from the back seat as it rose up like a tsunami; the ripple of rage grew and swelled like a tidal wave. Cars overturned, people flung into windows, hurled underfoot. The cops rushed from their seats and ran back into the chaos, their weapons drawn. I didn't hear gunshots amongst the carnage but I made a note of where they fell, praying the key to my cuffs would fall from his belt as he was swallowed up by the galaxy of hungry hands. In fact, it was the strangest thing; the noise at first was incredible, to the point I thought my ears would bleed. But as more people fell and turned, the noise level fell. By the time the virus had overtaken them all, they were moving in near silence, with only the occasional shattering of glass or car bursting into flames for a soundtrack.

My car was overturned and again, dumb luck saved me; I did not scream, therefore they did not take me. In the early stages their senses are poor; they can only find the loudest, brightest things. I lay upside down, watching them march on, unified and sullen, with no mind or idea. A day from then, I knew, they would turn on each other if nothing new became available. Once, we had watched the virus in a dish warring on itself until it was gone. 'Everything eating itself,' my friend said quietly, marveling at the viciousness of it all. My stomach rolled as he started laughing and hurriedly placed the dish in the incinerator, as if that would make it all neatly disappear.

Within the day, all communication was severed; whatever governments were aware of our work could not reach me and then they were turned and gone. I moved as carefully as I could, seeing no-one and monitoring the turned as they lumbered along, their eyes slowing prickling into life, their ears twitching with awareness. I raced to pre-designated places and wondered if the people I worked with had done the same as me; if they had, late at night, planned out their escape, ear-marked bolt holes and potential escape routes. I assume they did, though I never asked them outright. I guess it was a kind of joke amongst us; we all knew we were playing with the world, but none of us wanted to come right out and admit we had drawn up a treasure map in case we blew it. As I made my way, I wondered if any of them had chosen my route to safety, or if they had a whole separate game plan. I slipped the pistol into my waistband and had the idea that the gun would have been the ultimate exit for at least some of my colleagues.

* * *

It is coming. The marked shift in the branches tells me that the creature is making headway towards me. I know the thing can't detect me under all this filth but I wonder if it can somehow sense me, all the same. The leaves flicker and I draw a breath; soon I will see glowing eyes and upturned, bared teeth. I am surprised to find that my hands are not shaking. My heart is beating steadily but not racing, and I wonder why that is. I look out and feel how exhilarated I am, but I can't explain why I am not scared.

* * *

Within the week I was in the cabin, miles from anyone and any place. The internet was ravaged, all information shredded and nothing was left but the earth. I glanced around the place and thought about the time I had spent there as boy. It was the happiest time of my life. I was suddenly so thankful that my parents were no longer alive, and the idea, so horrific and so true, dropped me onto my knees. I screamed, for how long I couldn't say, and then pitched forward onto the floor, exhausted. When I came around, darkness had settled, and I risked sleeping rather than watching guard. I woke the next morning which meant I had once more gotten lucky.

I went about my work the next day. I built a perimeter and I laid my traps. The cold season was coming and I knew that would stop a high percentage of them. My father had taught me to be a hunter and I had learned reluctantly, even as my brother relished every moment. What I remembered I used and what else was needed I took from books. When it was done, I slept; each day, I waited.

The stillness calmed me at first and then later, broke me apart. No people came and so, no creatures followed. It was a terrible cycle; the longer I went without contact, the better my chances of survival became. The snow made the world a cool, blank canvas. For days I looked out into the nothingness, looking for signs and praying for a voice. When neither came, madness touched my mind, drawing in both sets of characters; creatures flashed in and out of the snow, teeth bared and ripe. Men and women smiled and then disappeared inside the second flurry. I searched for both and found neither.

Then it came.

I went through the process for one whole day, to check my mind wasn't playing tricks. Sure enough, it re-appeared, scavenging, searching, nearly aware of me but not quite. I tracked the abomination for a second day and was aware of how devolved it had become. As I squinted through my binoculars, I saw how the features had almost softened, as if it had aged a lifetime inside six months. The body was still taut but no longer impervious; two wounds were clearly visible above and below the breastplate. Twice its face twitched, almost sensing me, before scampering away into the woods. I watched it go, stunned to realize the monster was as scared of me as I was of it.

That night I lay awake most of the night, my calculations racing throughout my head. I had anticipated its weaknesses and countless flaws but not its fear or . . . timidity. To see it on its own made me think just how few there must be left, in the country, in the world. For a long, cool second, I imagined we were the last two beings left on the earth. It was not inconceivable. I lay perfectly still, until my mind hummed, hurting with the equations and outcomes of each scenario. It was dawn and I still had not slept. I wondered for a moment why that was; after all, my solutions were exhausted, all my theories had played out in my mind. I realized it was because one thought would not leave me, no matter how many times I tried to brush it away. The simple truth that I had seen with my own eyes: how human it had looked.

* * *

I pinch the sights and place my thumb over the trigger. It is moving steadily amongst the leaves and is almost . . . graceful. As it comes closer I see the head move and the fingers rustle the leaves. I try to tell myself the beast is not mirroring my own actions from a few hours before; pressing down on the leaves, weighing up each branch. Left or right, my mind whispers, almost scratching against the core of my brain. It feigns one way and then drifts the other; away from the net and into my sights. I flex my hand and return it to the trigger. A touch will guarantee my safety for this day, this month, forever. The temperature around me drops, as if it is waiting for us to play out our game. It does not look straight at me, nothing as clichéd as that. Simply put, the creature does not know I am here. I feel my finger itch and swallow hard.

One pull and it is over.

One shot and there is nothing left.

My finger slips out of the guard before my mind even confirms the action. I quietly draw the weapon down and watch as it moves away, back down the same path it always chooses. Even as I follow the creature until it is a dot on the landscape, I know tomorrow I will re-set the traps and I will sight and then settle the head in my scope. I will do all this and my willingness to squeeze the trigger will grow weaker still. As I am left in the stillness of the night, I roll onto my back and watch the stars; soon the moon will appear like a comma in the night sky. I try to see the blue sky from that other time, the plane and the jet-smoke trail but that image is lost to me now. Instead, I follow the stars and listen out in case it returns somehow, though I'm certain it will not. The rifle rests against me and I'm aware of just how close the barrel is to my throat. Again, I notice that I do not feel any fear; my heart beats steady and true. When I speak I do not recognize my voice. It is alien to me now and a stranger.

"I do not want to be alone."

Dream Job

by Richard Flores IV

The apartment door erupted in an explosion, devouring the six security locks. A small metal canister flew from the freshly made opening in the door. Samantha jumped from her couch as it bounced off the floor once, twice— _BANG_! A blinding flash of orange light followed the sound. Samantha clutched her face, falling to her knees in disorientation.

If anyone said anything, she could not hear it over the ringing in her ears. Two sets of hands took a strong hold of her arms and pulled her up. Her blurry eyesight could make out the heavily equipped men in uniform that were dragging her. Police! She had not done anything wrong, had she?

The men tossed her on her bed, the gel mattress immediately seizing her as it molded to her body. Samantha lay still, overwhelmed by the quick strike. The two officers stood at the foot of her bed, watching her without staring. Samantha thumbed the release switch that should have caused the bed to release its hold on her, but there was no response.

"You have the wrong house." Samantha stated, trying not to show her panic.

"I assure you we are in the right place, Samantha Baxter." The two uniformed men stepped back as a plain looking man came forward.

"I have not done anything wrong." Samantha paused.

"You are right about that, but we need to talk." The man pulled up a chair and sat beside Samantha. "It won't take long, and you won't even miss the time."

The man produced a small needle. Samantha attempted to wiggle away.

"You can't—" she began, but it was too late; the needle pushed into her arm, stinging her skin.

"That will only help you," The man said calmly. "Mr. Jonathan Marcs. You know him right?"

"Wait, who are you?" Samantha became hesitant. What did her secret boyfriend have to do with this?

"This will go a lot faster if you stick to my questions." The man paused. "I am Agent Daffron."

"Agent?"

"Agent, from the Government Protection Agency." Daffron stated as if it was obvious, and with a bit of annoyance. "Now can we get back to Mr. Marcs?"

"Jon is a client of Mr. Wineburn, my boss. I only talk to him when he checks in with me. I'm the receptionist." Samantha stated with as much contempt as she could muster. "Jon is just a small business owner, what would the GPA want with him?"

"Samantha, the GPA is interested in anyone who plans to take down the State." Daffron let out a sigh. "You seem far too able to ask questions."

"Jon is hardly a terrorist." Samantha let the shock leak out in her tone.

"You know this how? After all, he only checks in with you." Daffron was speaking sarcastically. "Is it because he does not fit the mold, the stereotypical terrorist as seen on TV?"

"Well—"

"Or is it because you wouldn't sleep with a terrorist?"

Samantha was shocked; how did they know? Of course! The GPA was capable of watching anyone in almost any place. She would have never suspected she was being watched. "Okay, you're right. I see Jon a little more than at the reception desk."

"I'll say. I might also mention that the GPA takes interest in those associating with terrorists." Daffron paused. "So, again. What do you know about Mr. Marcs?"

"I met him shortly after I started working at the firm. It's a good job; you won't tell my boss that I am sleeping with a client. I could lose my job."

"I am growing tired of your distractions."

"I am sorry. It's the fog in my head." Samantha felt lucid. But really it was her own defiance that kept her rattling out the questions. If they wanted answers, she was going to first find out what they wanted. What she could not figure out was why she was even talking to this Agent, likely a result of the injection.

"The haze in your head is normal with the medication I gave you." He rested his hand on her shoulders.

Samantha let out a scream. "Get your hands off me! You can't do this to me. I will sue you and everyone in this room. I have certain rights."

"The next thing you're going to say is that you pay my salary." Daffron did not let go and stared into her eyes. "I am not some street cop and this is not about some speeding ticket. I assure you that you have no rights while I am in this room."

Samantha withered under Daffron's intimidating gaze. Her fear paralyzed her from reacting in the hostile way she had. She finally felt her breath return to her. She could only muster a whisper. "Okay."

"Can we get back to Mr. Marcs?" Daffron took his hand off Samantha and sat back. All the calming nature had returned to his voice.

"He needed legal services and we are one of the best. Jon said it was also the fact that he wanted to support another local business. He comes in for advice, legal issues with his money, creating legal service contracts and documents. I think he pretty much uses every service our firm offers, which is a lot." Samantha stopped. She realized by Daffron's blank stare this was not enough to satisfy the Agent. "After about his fifth visit—"

"Sixth visit, actually." Daffron stated dryly.

"After his sixth visit, I guess, he asked me out on a date. It is not allowed, and I told him that, but he was so charming and, well . . . I could not resist."

"I bet." Daffron pulled out a file and looked at it closely. "That was about six months, twenty dates, or three sexual encounters ago. Depending on how you measure time, Samantha."

"I suppose. How long has the GPA been watching me?"

"Six months, twenty dates, or three sexual encounters, depending . . . "

"On how I measure time." Samantha turned away from him.

"Exactly." Daffron stated with a sound of satisfaction. "So tell me, have you been to his shop?"

"You already know I have."

"I suppose I do." Daffron paused for a moment. "Does he have a lot of customers there?"

"You know that too."

"Nevertheless, I would like to hear it from you." Daffron stated. Samantha realized by the sound in his voice that perhaps he did not know much about what went on inside Jon's shop.

"I have never paid much attention, honestly." Samantha turned back to face the Agent, really taking him in. For someone who knew everything about her last six months of life, she had never seen him before. He wore a plain blue suit with a hat pulled down to obscure just enough of his face. "Don't you think the fedora is a bit cliché for a Government Agent to be wearing?"

"Perhaps, but you are distracting from the real issues." Daffron looked at the folder as he spoke. "Based on what we have seen of his store traffic, he should barely be breaking even each year. Tell me, does he live like he is struggling?"

"I think you are trying to convince me Jon may very well be a terrorist." Samantha paused. "You already know the facts you have. What is it you need from me?"

"Fine." Daffron shut the folder and looked Samantha in the eyes. "We don't know what Jon is doing in his shop, and we are hoping you do."

"So you need my help? Well what if I don't want to help?"

"If you didn't think it was possible to live in a worse place then this," Daffron gestured to the small studio apartment while looking around. "I can show you one. If you like your home, you will help us."

"I am not a criminal."

"We know, but failing to cooperate with me can make you one. Can we get back to my questions?" Daffron waited for Samantha to nod. "Have you seen Jon meet with anyone?"

"Just my boss."

"So your boss handles Mr. Marcs' account himself?"

"Yes."

"Does your boss do that a lot with low profile clients?"

"No, not really. Only friends and big shots get his attention."

Daffron said what she was thinking. "So either he has a lot more money than you realized, or Mr. Marcs is friends with your boss. If they're friends, I wouldn't worry about me telling Mr. Wineburn about your involvement with Jon. But, think about it hard. On your dates it is always high class dining. Well, except for those lunches at the diner. His gifts are always extravagant aren't they? Sure, he drives a typical sedan and lives in a typical suburban home. Of course, Mr. Marcs has always been good at hiding his money, except when it comes to the ladies."

"He has done this with others?" Samantha was hurt by the thought that others had been rained on with Jon's generosity and affection.

"Of course, but don't be upset. He is clearly far more in love with you than the others." Daffron let out a sarcastic laugh. "I have already been here longer than I wanted, or should be. You keep digressing from the situation at hand. Was there anyone else you can remember Mr. Marcs meeting with? In private?"

Samantha tried to recall. Her mind was not very sharp. Then suddenly the thought came to her, as if someone had allowed her access to it. "There was a man, a rather unimportant looking person. It was the first time I had been to his shop. A man came in. They went to a back room for nearly an hour. I was about to leave, figuring our date was canceled, when they both came out."

"Does he cancel dates often?" Daffron asked.

"More than I would like." Samantha let a little bit of aggravation come out in her words. "He is always late or something. Some 'damn last-minute customer,' he always says."

"Do you know the name of the customer he met with?"

"No. Jon said it was a business deal."

"Samantha, I think you have worn out your use for the GPA." Daffron made a gesture to the damaged front door. "We hoped you might know more about what goes on inside his shop."

Samantha saw a man in a brown suit, much the same style as Daffron's, enter the room. She struggled to think of something that might help the Agent. If she was put in jail she would surely lose her job. "I really didn't know to look for anything. I don't know much about the operations of an auto shop."

Daffron pulled out a large syringe. "I am going to give you something to help you forget this ever happened."

"You're going to erase my memories?" Samantha frantically pressed the release button again and again. The bed refused to let her go.

"Calm down, Samantha. It will only effect the last few hours, most of which you spent watching that same old movie you seem to love. You won't even know it happened. Besides, it is relatively safe." Daffron stuck the needle into her arm.

"Relatively?" Samantha panicked and struggled against the gel's grip on her.

"Well, you will go into cardiac arrest." Daffron pushed down the plunger with a slow steady force.

"I don't want to die!" Samantha screamed.

An icy cold began to rush over her body, slowly flooding around her arm and across her body. She began to gasp for air in panic as she realized the cold-flowing blood was reaching her heart.

"Relax, you will only be dead for a few minutes. Our doctors always get a revival." Daffron said calmly. Samantha closed her eyes feeling sleepy. "Well. Almost always."

* * *

Samantha woke up with a start. She could still feel the coldness of her blood in her arm and chest. She pressed the release; as soon as the gel adjusted she jumped out of bed. She struggled for breath to calm herself and looked around the room.

She took a breath again, her body beginning to warm up. She slowly walked to the front door. The door was fully intact, all six locks bolted shut. Even the familiar old dent from the party she threw was still there. She began to breathe a bit more regular as she realized she was awake from the nightmare.

Looking at her clock, she realized there was no point in going back to sleep. She may as well get ready for work. Somehow she had to pay for this overpriced dump.

As she slipped out of her nightgown she rationalized all the ridiculous things she had dreamt about. She was mad at Jon for canceling their lunch date yesterday. That's why he was demonized in her dream. Agents drugging people for questioning didn't happen in free societies. Yet, by the time she was dressed for work, she was still unconvinced.

She got to work a little early that morning; she chose to drive to work but still left at the same time as if she had walked; she did't want to be out in the open. Walking into the high rise building and past the security desk, she smiled at the two security guards who always watched her intently as they sat at the desk. Were they involved? Impossible, they just enjoyed watching a woman in form-fitting business dress walk by.

At the elevator, she pressed her thumb against the reader until the light went from red to green. The doors opened and she got in. She took the lift to the twelfth floor.

By the time she stepped out of the elevator, her thoughts were on her day of work. She reminded herself of the things she would need to get done, rather than focusing on an impossible dream. She saw Jon waiting by the office door. As she approached him she looked around.

"Awfully risky being here so early to meet me." Samantha smiled. "I need this job. If Mr. Wineburn sees you..."

"I am here for an emergency appointment." Jon smiled at her. "I would kiss you but you would say no. Can we meet for lunch, down the street at the usual spot? I won't be late again."

"Sounds great." Samantha smiled and unlocked the door. "Come in and sit down. Mr. Wineburn should be in soon."

Samantha watched Jon sit at one of the large overstuffed waiting room chairs. She went to her computer behind the cherry wood reception desk, clocked in, and then began looking at the day's appointments. "He is booked solid today."

"I called him already. He will see me." Jon said.

"I didn't know you had his cell number. So are you good friends?" Samantha smiled to take the edge off her statement.

Jon just laughed. Shortly later, Mr. Wineburn came in. Samantha greeted him as usual. He nodded to her and then took Jon back to a conference room. Just before leaving he turned around and smiled. "Are you okay, Samantha? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I am fine, sir." Samantha smiled warmly. "Rough night's sleep."

"Too many sweets before bed will do that." Mr. Wineburn went into the conference room.

She began to look over the schedule for the day. It was mostly the regular big shots who 'kept this town running,' as she had heard Mr. Wineburn brag. There was one new name, a new client.

Henry Daffron.

Samantha took a deep breath to conceal her fear. She knew that name. Why was he coming to her office? It was a new client meeting, last of the day. Surely this must be a coincidence.

Of course, seeing this appointment yesterday was how her subconscious got the name. Samantha smiled to herself at her own irrational fear. I'll worry if he is wearing a fedora, she thought.

* * *

After an uneventful morning, Samantha left to meet Jon at the usual lunch-time meeting place. It was just far enough that she was not likely to run into any coworkers on their lunch breaks, but not so far as to make her late getting back.

She walked in and looked around. Jon was not there yet. She was a little annoyed, though he was not late yet. She looked over at the bar; a rather plain looking man looked at her. He was not someone who would stand out to anyone. As she made eye contact, he looked away. The coldness in his eyes was startling, familiar to her. She was certain she knew who he was.

She waited another ten minutes before she called Jon's phone. He did not answer, and she left a rather rude message about failing to keep his promise to her. She ended the call and stood. The man from the bar walked past her. She stepped out of his way, despite that fact that she was nowhere near his path.

She got her meal to-go and left, looking carefully as she crossed the street.

* * *

Samantha was bored, a common problem after three. She had finished all her busy work, including the backlog of calls from her lunch break. The phones didn't ring much in the late afternoon.

Jon had still not returned her call. Anger with him brought other negative thoughts to her mind. She looked around to make sure no one was watching her work and then pulled up Jon's file on the computer.

She looked over the rather secretly written files. Despite her knowledge of client files, these entries made little sense to her. After all, she was only a receptionist, but even she could see something was hidden. Jon made a lot of money for the owner of a small shop, a shop she had not seen many visitors enter. Perhaps he was big with parts sales over the net; many people ordered things online. Samantha saw many different cryptic cases. She was no lawyer, but she could see Jon was moving money and trying to keep it legal. Closing the file, she felt ashamed at her paranoia.

She had never thought about how much Jon made over the last six months, or three sexual encounters. Samantha shivered. This dream was clearly causing the paranoia. It was time to dismiss it for what it was, a horrible dream. She checked her phone again. Why hadn't Jon called back?

The door to the office opened, and Samantha jumped as she recognized the man from the bar, now dressed in a sport coat and slacks. The man approached the desk. "I am here for an appointment."

"Henry Daffron?" Samantha didn't know how she knew it was him. It could have easily been one of the appointments for the five other lawyers.

"Yes." The man was clearly taken back by her knowledge of his name.

"I will let him know you are here." Samantha paused. "Your name sounds very familiar. Have we met before?"

"I am sure I would remember if we had." Daffron smiled. "A woman as charming as yourself."

She smiled back. "I'm sorry but your flattery is wasted, we can't date clients."

"A rule I am sure some might break." Daffron leaned closer. "You wouldn't do such a thing I am sure."

Samantha tried to hide her concern. His name, his eyes, and his demeanor were all too familiar. Is it possible to dream of someone whom you never met?

"Mr. Wineburn rarely meets with new clients," she said. "You must be a powerful man."

"Of course not." Daffron smiled. "I requested to speak with him. I have some information to share with him, and I am sure he has some information for me."

Mr. Wineburn came out and brought Daffron to the conference room himself. The meeting lasted for some time, and Samantha went home without seeing her boss leave.

* * *

The next morning she found her boss waiting for her as she came in to work. He waved her to his office. She walked in and took a seat only after he gestured to one.

"Samantha," Wineburn spoke with a bit of compassion in his voice. "I have been made aware that you are dating and are rather romantically involved with Jon Marcs, a client of mine."

"Who told you such a thing?" Samantha faked a bit of contempt in her voice.

"Samantha, I know it is true. Besides, you also accessed his files, and that was just yesterday." He slid a check over the desk. "I hate do this, but I have to let you go."

Samantha took the check before the words slipped out of her mouth without thought. "It was that Henry Daffron, he told you didn't he?"

"Who?"

"The man you met with last night?" Samantha saw the look of puzzlement remain on her boss' face. She stood up. "Never mind, I'll gather what few things I have here and leave."

It did not take long for her to gather the few pictures she had and the few supplies she had brought from home into a small box. As embarrassing as being fired was, she did not want to leave any personal belongings behind. She didn't want to come back to this place.

She took her box and left the building. She wished she had chosen to drive today as she carried her box down the street. A flurry of emotions welled up inside of her. She was mad, and sad, but not about losing this particular job.

She had her worries: How she would pay her rent? How long would it be until she found work again? There were jobs out there, but being fired from a prestigious law firm would no doubt taint her ability to get work. She had too much pride to ask Jon for money, though his lack of contact with her likely meant he was not in her life anymore.

"Can I help you carry that box?"

Samantha turned and saw Daffron looking at her. He wore a blue suit and a fedora. Words came to Samantha's mind so she spoke them. "Don't you think the fedora is a bit cliché?"

"Perhaps, but you're distracting yourself from the real issue." Daffron spoke cautiously. "You remember don't you?"

Samantha looked him over, and the cold feeling began to rush over her arm again. Dropping the box to the ground, she ran. She ran hard and fast. After fumbling for her phone to alert the police, she realized it was in the box.

She ran out of her heels and continued to run until her legs could no longer take the punishment. She stopped at the open field of a park and looked around. Seeing no one, she sat down, not out of fatigue but out of sudden sickness. She was dizzy and began to dry heave. Several moments passed before she regained herself and stood back up.

"You'll be perfect for the job. You are in top physical form, and very inquisitive." Daffron stood there holding her shoes and the box. "You are looking for work, aren't you?"

Samantha stared at him blankly. Her reflexes told her to run again, but something in her mind made her stay. "What job?"

"Agent. It's a good job, easily quadruple what you used to make. Good benefits too." Daffron smiled a large, almost evil grin. "You could say it is the job you've dreamed of."

"What do you need from me?" Samantha inched away from him, ignoring his humor.

"Don't run again." Daffron held out her shoes. "This meeting in purely optional, but the GPA could use your help. It will be beneficial for us both."

"I have not seen Jon. He is not calling me anymore. I doubt I will be much help to you." Samantha took her shoes and slipped them back on her feet.

"Jon has been with us, though I doubt he will remember it. You are the only person who ever has." Daffron took a breath. "We know nothing about what Jon does inside the shop. Nothing we have can hear what goes on inside. We know enough about Jon to know who he really works for."

"You need me to spy on him." Samantha paused, noticing how Daffron's eyes appeared warmer to her, almost inviting. Her fear of him was almost gone. "What makes you think I will betray Jon to you?"

"I am not asking you to betray Jon. I am only asking you to help protect your country." Daffron said. "I can give you the means to prove Jon is innocent, if you still believe that after you see the files. Besides, you need the money."

"And then once I prove Jon innocent or guilty, and GPA has no use for me, then what?"

"I am offering you the job of Agent. Trust me, once Jon is in custody, there are plenty more to track down." Daffron handed Samantha her box. "It is up to you. I guarantee you a good life in this line of work. But once I walk away the offer is rescinded."

Daffron turned around and started to walk away. Samantha began to think quickly. Could she really let him walk away? It had to be a good job. Besides, what loyalties did she really have to Jon?

Samantha realized she was only trying to rationalize her deep desire to take the job. The money would be good, and the job did interest her.

Daffron was at the street corner when Samantha called out. "I will take it on the condition that the fedora is optional."

* * *

It had been three more months, fifteen more dates, or four more sexual encounters later before Samantha discovered everything she needed. She sat on a Doctor's stool, Daffron standing over her shoulder.

She looked at Jon in the hospital bed. His arm was bandaged from an injury during his arrest. She knew things about Jon now, and there was little sympathy in her eyes.

"There is no need to question him." Daffron rested his hand on her shoulder.

"Without me, we would have no case. I want to hear it from him," she said coldly.

Jon opened his eyes, only to promptly slam them back shut.

"It's bright in this room." Samantha said in a calm reassuring voice. "The fog will clear in your head soon."

"Samantha?" Jon said as he eased his eyes back open. "Is that you?"

"I'm Agent Baxter, Mr. Marcs. The GPA has some questions for you." Samantha put on her cynical smile. "And, you won't even miss the time."

Mysteries That Remain

by Milan Smith

There was a house in the woods that Phillip and his friends passed by whenever they rode out to Thompson's Bayou. People said it was haunted, and with its peeling paint, broken windows and overgrown yard, it looked the part. It had once been in the country, but the suburbs had grown and grown and now the newest homes stood only a hundred yards away.

At first the boys were fascinated by the house, and many times they'd dared each other to walk up and look in the windows, but no one ever did, and after numberless rides past it, they lost interest. But sometimes, while riding by at dusk, Phillip saw a little blond girl walking across the yard. This only happened when he was alone, or if his friends had gotten far ahead, which wasn't often.

The girl was about his age, ten-years-old, and because he figured she lived in one of the nearby homes, he never paid much attention to her. He didn't have much use for girls anyway, most of them didn't like snakes or frogs or even playing in the bayou. But one day, when the others had ridden ahead, he saw her again.

For no particular reason he yelled, "Hey, stop! Wait for me!"

The girl stopped, turned and waited.

Phillip pedaled faster until he reached the oak tree by the side of the road, then jumped off his bike and looked up, but she was gone. He knew she couldn't have gotten to the house that quick, so he rushed across the yard, thinking she was hiding in the tall grass. But he found nothing. He ran to the back of the house, and saw only the trees and brush that had grown up close to the back wall during the years of neglect.

Confused, he walked back to the front door and waited, thinking the girl might have gone inside. But that seemed unlikely, since the house had been empty for years. Still, where else could she be? He thought about knocking, but azalea bushes grew thick at the doorway and left a narrow path, and in the dying light the shadows lay deep. Phillip's mind imagined many things crouching in those shadows, or watching him from the broken windows that stared out like blind eyes. It was getting dark, his friends were long gone, and he didn't want to stay out there alone. All his life people had told him stories about the house, and now the rumors began to run through his mind: human sacrifice, someone being gutted, unanswered screams for mercy.

Phillip decided to knock, but he didn't move right away. He was afraid to rush in among those shadows near the door, with the sun now falling behind the trees. He felt his heart thump hard, but he couldn't move. Should he stay and knock, or leave? He had little time left. So, knock or leave? What to do?

Then, with a furious energy that surprised him, he rushed through the azaleas and to the door, knocked three times, then ran back a dozen yards to wait. Nothing. He waited more. Still nothing. He was worried; if there was anything bad in that house, it now knew about him, and he was all alone. Enough, he turned and ran across the yard, got on his bike, and pedaled away. His chain guard rattled and clanged as he rode. He looked back once and thought he saw the girl standing by the oak tree, a silhouette in the gloom, but he wasn't sure, and he was unwilling to go back and see.

* * *

After that day, he thought a lot about the little girl. She'd looked so sweet in her red dress, with her little white socks and shiny black shoes. And the blond curls too. Maybe, he thought at first, she was all alone and needed a friend. But then, she always walked away when he came close. Well, maybe she didn't like him? But no, she didn't even know him, so that couldn't be it.

So who was she, anyway? None of his friends knew anything. They hadn't even seen her. Everyone had heard about the house, of course. Stories said a cult had once held kidnapped kids there, or that a woman was killed during a full moon, or that bodies were still buried in the backyard. When he would asked his parents about it, they always laughed it off or changed the subject. But when he started asking about the little girl, they just ignored him and walked away. No one had any answers, and with no one else to turn to, he decided to ask Mr. Withers.

Mr. Withers, tall, stooped, and white-haired, lived a few houses down the street. Though he was over 80 he walked the block twice a day with a metal-tipped cane. Often, on his late-afternoon walk, he'd stop and talk with Phillip's father, and the two men would discuss the news. Although Mr. Withers was always nice to him, Phillip didn't like to be around the old man. He had the smell of barbershops on him, the smell of aftershave, which Phillip had never liked. But he needed advice, and Mr. Withers was the only one he knew that might help. So Phillip waited one Saturday until Mr. Withers took his mid-morning stroll, and Phillip walked his bike alongside him.

"How you doing today, Mr. Withers?" Phillip asked.

Mr. Withers stared at the pavement under his feet as he walked. He now stopped, leaned on his cane and looked up at the boy. "Why fine, Phillip, and how are you today? Been riding about the neighborhood?"

"Yes, sir," Phillip said. "We're going out to the bayou and try and find some gators."

"Oh, do you usually have much luck?" Mr. Withers asked.

"No, sir. They went and killed most of 'em, saying it was dangerous and all, though I never seen 'em bother anyone long as people left 'em alone."

"What a shame," Mr. Withers said. "There was a time there were a number of gators in this area, but the tourists saw to it that that didn't last."

"Yes, sir."

"Would you like to walk with me a little ways?" Mr. Withers asked.

"Yes, sir," Phillip said, and the two began to stroll along, Mr. Withers with long, slow steps, Phillip with short bouncy ones. The homes they passed were well-kept, with yards closely-cut and bushes well-trimmed, and many with large magnolias whose yellow blossoms now threw off a fruity perfume. The street was quiet but for Mr. Withers' cane rapping the sidewalk. Phillip looked up and squinted as they walked, the sun above the old man's shoulder. "Mr. Withers, can I ask you something?" Phillip asked.

"Surely, Phillip."

"It's about that old haunted house by the bayou."

Mr. Withers smiled. "I see."

"I know nobody likes to talk about it much, because of all the human sacrifices and all."

Mr. Withers nodded. "Now where did you hear that?"

"Around."

"Of course," Mr. Withers said. "And were you simply trying to trick me into talking about it, despite your parents' wishes, or was there something specific you wanted to ask?"

"Well, it's about the girl."

"A girlfriend of yours?"

"No, sir. It's the little blond girl I always see in the yard."

A long silence fell between them, and only the tapping cane was heard. In the distance, a dog barked. Phillip thought the old man had forgotten the question, or had decided to ignore it, and he wondered whether he should have asked at all, when Mr. Withers suddenly spoke.

"There are many things you don't know about yet," Mr. Withers said, "perhaps you're too young to know about." And Mr. Withers fell silent again for a moment. "In any case, your parents feel that way, and I must respect their wishes and concerns. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Sometimes it's just for the best. And besides, aren't gators more interesting anyway?"

"No, sir."

"No? You think an old house is that exciting?"

"Sometimes."

"Ah."

"But, I wanna know about the girl. She's kinda shy, but I think she likes me."

"No," Mr Withers said.

"What?"

Mr. Withers stopped, turned, and put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Phillip, do me a favor," he said, his voice low. "Whatever you do, don't go near that house. I know it's exciting. I know, for I was a boy like yourself once, but please, just stay away from it." The old man squeezed the boy's shoulder. "For your own best good, just stay away."

Then Mr. Withers straightened up and stood there a moment, thinking, then he walked on. Phillip, stunned, didn't move. Then Mr. Withers stopped and turned, leaning on his cane. "It won't matter long, anyway," he said. "They're going to build new homes there. It was in the papers. They'll tear down the house, then all your problems will be over. It's just as well, I suppose."

Phillip watched him turn away and walk off, the cane tapping hard against the sidewalk, then he turned the corner and was out of sight.

Phillip got on his bike and rode around, going nowhere in particular. The old man had frightened him. He knew he couldn't stay away from the house, but now he was afraid of it. Every time he rode by it after that, he'd stare and wonder. Twice he thought he saw someone behind one of the broken windows, a pale face that stared out for just a moment. And once he actually saw her. She was in a second floor window. He stopped by the tree and watched her. He saw the curls and the red of her dress and she smiled. His friends had ridden ahead, and one of them yelled for him. He looked at them, and when he turned back, all he saw was the red glare of sun on jagged glass. He waited a minute to see if she'd reappear, or even walk outside, but nothing more happened.

Phillip might have rode past the house endlessly and never entered it, always yearn to go inside but never find the courage. There were other things to keep him busy anyway: school, sports, his friends. And since the girl decided she didn't want to meet him, why should he chase her?

But one Saturday in May, when the sun was so hot it burned his neck and made him sweat, he and his friends rode to the bayou and found pickup trucks, dump trucks and bulldozers sprawled over the road in front of the house. Three men in white shirts and ties stood around a map talking and pointing in all directions. Several other men in T-shirts and jeans stood close by and waited, talking and laughing.

One of the men in T-shirts stood off alone, leaning against the bed of a pick-up truck. He was the same age as Phillip's father, and Phillip stopped in front of him and asked what they were doing.

"Construction," the man said. "We're gonna build some houses."

Phillip looked around for a moment. "So there'll be a whole lotta new houses?" he asked.

"Oh yeah," the man said, "new streets too."

"Are you gonna tear down that old house?" Phillip asked, and pointed.

The man looked back. "Oh yeah," the man said. "That's the first thing that'll go. Then the trees and this old road," the man kicked the asphalt with the heel of his boot. "We're gonna build a brand new one."

"Oh," Phillip said. "So when'll they tear down the house?"

"Oh hell, I dunno. They can't make up their minds what they wanna do. We were supposed to tear it down today, but it don't look too likely now. It's about time to go on home."

"Tomorrow?" Phillip asked.

"Don't work Sundays. It'll be Monday morning."

Phillip thanked the man and pedaled away behind his friends, chain guard clanging.

Monday, the man had said.

Monday.

So that was it. Phillip knew he had no time left, that those men would soon kill the house. He now rode with a sense of dread. Dread for the house, and for himself, because he knew he had to go inside to look for the little girl, and that frightened him. He didn't know why—or when—the desire to go in became a need, but it'd come out that way, and he knew if he didn't go, he'd hate himself. And he had to go right away, the next morning.

That evening he hardly ate dinner and could think of nothing but the house until bedtime, and then he slept badly all night, unable to focus on anything but that front door. And the girl. And those broken windows that looked like dead, rotting eyes. When he finally did fall asleep, he had nightmares of things inside the house reaching for him, whispering in his ear, laughing. The next morning, he woke up more tired than when he'd gone to bed.

Though he was scared, he didn't want to wait, he wanted to get it over with. So after he dressed, he ate fast and headed for the door, but his mother grabbed him before he got out. She wanted to go shopping. He whined and argued with her, making excuses why he couldn't go, but he had no choice. She dragged him with her and all day long he fidgeted as he was forced to try on clothes or sit and wait while she shopped. He was miserable.

It was late when they got back. As soon as his mother turned away, he got on his bike. As he rode down the street, he passed Mr. Withers, who looked up.

"Hello, Phillip," he said.

"Heya, Mr. Withers," Phillip said. He didn't stop, he just waved at the old man as he passed by then pedaled harder so he wouldn't have to stop and talk.

By the time he reached the house, the sun was near the horizon. Phillip leaned against the oak tree and looked for the girl. The bulldozers and dump trucks were still on the road behind him, parked in no particular order. He'd thought about telling his friends what he was doing, just to have someone nearby. But, he knew they would've teased him, both at the house and then later at school, so he'd gone alone.

It wouldn't take long, he thought. He'd already decided he'd walk to the stairs, yell for the girl, and if she didn't come right away, he'd just leave. It seemed simple and safe, but he still didn't move.

The sun continued to fall, the air grew cool, and it was getting dark. He had to go. So Phillip propped his bike against the tree, turned and walked across the yard. He stared at the windows as he went, and felt the tall grass rub his shins. His heart began to beat harder as he moved forward. He was about to walk inside a haunted house, a house where people had died. He felt alone, like he no longer had a mother or father or friends, as if the rest of the world had fallen away and left him. But, he went on.

Phillip reached the door and pushed through the azalea bushes, chills rising as the leaves tickled his arms. He sucked in his breath and reached for the knob. The door was unlocked. He pushed it open and heard the rusty hinges creak. He waited, but when nothing happened, the air gushed from his lungs, and he stepped inside.

The house was gloomy, but there was still light enough to see. To his left was a staircase to the second floor, straight ahead the hallway, and to the right a door. The house was empty of all but dust, a few rocks, and broken glass. The smell of must filled the air, and Phillip rubbed his nose.

He stood and listened for many minutes, for footsteps or voices, but he heard nothing. He walked to the doorway on the right and looked in. It was empty. Flowered wallpaper, ripped in places, covered the walls. An open door led into another room. He walked to that doorway and looked in, but it was also empty.

"Hello?" Phillip said. "Anyone here?"

There was no answer. Phillip turned and walked back to the front hall. His shoes squeaked on the wooden floor, he cringed, and tried to walk more quietly. He moved to the stairway and looked up. Light from an upstairs window lit the landing.

Phillip hadn't intended to go farther than this, but now he had to. He couldn't explain why. No one would ever know how far he'd gone; they probably wouldn't even care once they heard he'd been inside, but that didn't matter. He had to go upstairs, go all the way, or else he wouldn't have done it right. He shivered a moment, and almost turned back, but the chill passed and he began to climb.

Some stairs creaked as he walked, and each time he stiffened and paused, listened, listened, then slowly moved on. He looked in all directions as he moved, afraid something may come from behind or above. He reached out for the wooden banister and felt the powdery dust. He jerked his hand back and wiped it against his shorts, leaving marks, then slapped the dust off his clothes and watched it float away. When he looked back up, he saw the little girl on the top step, and he cried out.

Then—no, there was nothing, just light from the window. He'd imagined her. There was nothing there, just light and shadows, he could see that now. Still, his heart thumped madly in his chest, and he wanted to cry.

But then, a new feeling came over him. If the girl was up there, somewhere upstairs, he felt he was safe. He had no idea why he thought that; he knew nothing about her, but he believed in her. For some reason, he was sure she wouldn't let anything hurt him. That thought made him feel better, and he kept walking.

He stopped at the top of the stairs and faced the back window. It was broken, and shards of glass lay on the floor glittering in the dying light like shiny knives.

Phillip turned and looked along the hall. An open door near the stairwell led to another room. He walked over and stopped at the doorway. The room was full of dust and rocks, and the wallpaper was covered with toy soldiers. In one corner was a dark stain on the floor and part of the wall. There was something in it that bothered him, though he didn't know what. Just something odd about the way it splattered everywhere.

"Anyone here?" Phillip yelled. He heard a slight echo, and he yelled again. But there was no answer. In this room he smelled mildew and rotten carpet. It made him gag, and he turned away.

Phillip walked down the hall to the front window, the same window where he'd seen the little girl so clearly that one day. He was eager to look at it, but he walked slowly and listened for any noises in the house. When he got close, he recognized the jagged pattern of broken glass, though it was backward, and he looked for any sign that the girl had been there. He saw nothing, not even footsteps in the dust on the floor. Phillip stepped over the glass and stood by the window. He looked down at the oak tree, and saw his bike had fallen over—or been knocked down. The sun was halfway hidden behind the trees. He decided to yell one more time, then go.

He turned and said, "Is there anybody here?" He listened. "If there is, come out now or I'm going to leave." Nothing. "Hello?"

From far away he heard something, like the snuffling of a dog. The sound came from downstairs. He waited, then heard the creaking and the slamming of the front door. He shivered and looked back at the window. The sun was almost gone, only a sliver remained above the trees.

From somewhere in the house he heard crying, crying that became a scream. He stared down the hallway, afraid, then started to run.

He now knew he'd made a mistake, that he shouldn't have come, and fear made him run faster. When he reached the stairs he grabbed the banister and started stumbling down the steps. It was dark below, almost black, but he kept going. When he was near the bottom he looked up and saw a flash of red. It was the blond girl, and she was by the door, pulling on the knob. He started to call out to her, but then he fell and tumbled down the last few steps.

When he reached the bottom he scrambled to his hands and knees and froze for one long moment. It was cold down there, like ice, and he heard something breathing. The sound came from everywhere. He felt the air move, hot breath in a cold room, and again saw a flash of red by the door. He tried to stand but fell over. It was so dark, he could see nothing but the little girl who now turned to him and stared. He lay still and looked at her, then she took two steps closer and screamed.

The scream was sharp and long and cut the air. He covered his ears and curled up and still it came. He thrashed side-to-side, trying to block it out, wishing he'd never come to this house. He looked up, but the girl kept screaming.

"Mommy!" he shouted. "Mommy, mommy, mommy!"

There was pounding, and the hot breath fell on his face, and he opened his eyes and saw two shiny black shoes so close he could kiss them. And as the little girl kept screaming, he knew that something had happened in this house, and was happening again, and he cried out, knowing it was too late as he saw hands reaching down from the darkness to take him.

* * *

Phillip woke in his own bed. It was daylight, late afternoon, but the house was quiet. Though there was a ringing in his ears, he could still hear a dog barking somewhere outside. He stared out the window for a long time, feeling the warm rays fall on his arm. Then he turned to look around the room, and he saw Mr. Withers sitting by his bed, hunched over his cane.

The old man looked almost white, and for a moment Phillip thought he was dead. But no, he was still breathing.

"Mr. Withers?" No reply. "Mr. Withers?" Phillip reached out to touch his arm, and the old man started, then looked up.

"Well hello, Phillip," the old man said, smiling. "And how are you this afternoon?"

"I don't know," Phillip said. And he didn't really. "How'd I get here?"

"You don't remember?"

"No."

"Your father and I found you and brought you home."

"You did? But, how'd you know where I was?"

"When I saw you riding down the road," Mr. Withers said, "I had a feeling you were headed there. To the house."

"Oh." The boy shook his head, trying to think. "Is my mom and dad here?"

"Your parents are sleeping right now, Phillip. They were exhausted. You gave them a terrible scare last night."

"I didn't mean to. I just wanted to see . . ." Phillip stumbled to a stop.

The old man nodded. "I know. I know."

"So you and my dad saved me?"

Mr. Withers looked long at the boy. "I'm not sure, Phillip. I don't know what really happened. Do you remember anything?"

Phillip thought hard on it, but everything was hazy, in pieces. "I remember there was something in the house with me, and I was trying to get out, but I fell down the stairs. And the little girl was there too, and I think she was trying to help me. I remember she was screaming, but I couldn't get away. And it was so dark. And cold. Did you see it, Mr. Withers?"

Mr. Withers shook his head. "No, Phillip, I didn't. We heard the screaming, and when your father broke down the door we found you on the floor."

"But, there was something there, Mr. Withers, there really was. I couldn't see it but there was something in the house."

"I know, Phillip. That's why I warned you to stay away."

There was a noise in another part of the house, a door opened. "Sounds like your parents are up," Mr. Withers said, and he stood up.

"So, what was it?" Phillip asked. "The thing in the house, I mean?"

Mr. Withers stood by the bed for a long time, leaning on his cane and staring at the door. "I don't know," the old man said. "I'm afraid no one does. You've already heard the stories, all I can say is that some of them are true."

"Then what happened to the little girl? Did it get her?"

The old man turned to the boy, and he looked terribly sad. "I probably shouldn't tell you. Your parents would be upset, but after what happened, I feel you deserve to hear the truth. What little I know of it, anyway."

"Yes, sir?"

"You see Phillip, some years ago, a number of people in town went missing. No one knows how or why. They all disappeared over one summer. Their bodies were later found under the house. They seemed to have died violently, but it was hard to tell from what. No one knows who, or what, did it."

"And the little girl?"

Mr. Withers shook his head. "Frances disappeared 30 years ago, in August of 1969. She, like the others, was found a year later." There were now footsteps in the back of the house. "She was a good girl, Phillip, a very good girl. You'd have liked her, I think. Although she'd be your mother's age now, if she were still living."

"Yes, sir. I did like her, she was very nice."

"Others have seen her from time to time. You see, you weren't the first. I've heard stories about her almost from the beginning. I admit there was some comfort in that, in knowing she was still nearby."

"So you knew her?" Phillip asked.

"Why yes, of course, she was my daughter." The old man sighed. "I miss her very much, and I want to thank you for being her friend."

"Yes, sir. I wish I knew her better."

The old man smiled. "I'm sure she feels the same way, Phillip."

There were footsteps in the hall now. "Your parents are coming," Mr. Withers said, "I think it's time I was going." And he walked to the door, ready to leave.

"But, Mr. Withers?"

The old man stopped at the door and turned. "Yes, Phillip?"

"What about the thing in the house? Can't it still hurt people?"

"Oh no, Phillip, not anymore. They tore down the house this morning. I saw it for myself. I had just enough left in me after last night's adventure to go see it. Whatever was in there, it's gone now." The old man sighed. "They should have done it years ago."

"But, now no one'll know what it was."

"Well yes, that's true," Mr. Withers said. "What happened in that house will remain a mystery. But, some things in life have no answers. I'm afraid I had to learn that the hardest way of all. I only hope it's easier for you. Good bye, Phillip. And once more, thank you for what you did."

"Good bye, Mr. Withers."

The old man turned and left the room. And as he moved down the hallway, Phillip saw the little blond girl near the door. She smiled at Phillip—the first smile he'd ever seen from her—and then Mr. Withers reached out and took her hand. Frances waved at Phillip, then walked out of sight.

He never saw either of them again. As Phillip learned later, the old man had died during the night. He'd saved Phillip, then went home to bed and died in his sleep. But, polite as always, Mr. Withers had stopped long enough to say goodbye before going on his way.

Phillip took one more trip out to Thompson's Bayou, just to see for himself. And the old man was right, there was nothing more to worry about, for the house was truly dead. It was now a parking lot.

Silent Pact at Pope Lick Trestle

by Alex Duvall

"Hunter's Moon weren't more'n three days ago," Maurice Dupont said. "Folk say the big Injun found the mick layin' there in the shallow part o' the crick under the trestle. Her eyes open wide an' her lungs takin' in big breaths like a bass stuck on bedrock. One might reckon she'd been better off if'n he'd just found her dead. Folk say her clothes were all torn to hell an' back an' that fair Irish skin o' hers was all bruised an' cut."

I remember the old man retrieved his signature pipe from a gray jacket that had long-survived the War Between the States and held it within the left corner of his dried lips. I knew the man well enough to know that his pipe, once lit, signified only one scenario was about to occur: His level of intoxication was ready to leave the stage of jolly bliss that loosened his hold on reality and enter a stage of aggravating belligerence.

"Poor, sweet Molly Finnegan . . . she hasn't been sound of mind ever since," I said, leaning back while the legs of my rickety stool protested in screeches over the dusty floor of The Mouflon.

Katherine Lefevre, the middle-aged barmaid and mother of one, approached the table where Maurice and I were sitting. Her dirty, auburn hair was tied back in a torn scarf with fine wisps that spilled over her despondent face. The woman was hesitant upon seeing the old man and his near-empty mug of beer, but she seemed to relax when she noticed me smiling for the sake of her confidence.

"Can I get y'all more to drink?" She asked.

"Well, now if it ain't Mademoiselle Lefevre," Maurice said, taking off his wide-brimmed hat. His long white strands of hair were brushed back to reveal a distinguished receded-hairline. "How is my pretty little sunshine this evening?" I crinkled my nose at his false courtesy.

The rims of Katherine's brown eyes welled up at the insensitive timing of the question. The old man was oblivious to her pain.

"Miss Lefevre," I intervened, "I'm sorry to hear about Miss Finnegan's incident. I know she's like a daughter to you."

"Thank you," she said. Her eyes batted as if pleading me to relieve her. "Molly is sleeping upstairs." Maurice eyed the bar behind the counter, paying no attention to Miss Lefevre's words. Wheezing, he set his unlit pipe upon our table.

"My dear, would you be an angel an' get an old man some o' that sweet Kentucky bourbon that—"

"We've both had more than enough, Kathy," I said, "but thank you for checking up." I nodded a firm smile. The troubled woman shot a thankful look my way before turning back for the kitchen with no protest from Maurice.

Ignoring the lusty looks on the old man's face as Miss Lefevre left, I gazed out a nearby window smudged with the residue of pipe smoke. Looking out into the autumn eve, the changing leaves made me homesick for Massachusetts. The moon, full and hovering not far beyond the woodlands, peered behind omnipresent clouds pregnant with premature snowflakes. Its salmon-hued light glazed the visible stars while the looming night air frosted the valley grass.

Near the west edge of the trestle, the little tavern sits less than a mile from where the train drops passengers off at the station, beyond the clearing of the tree-layered hills east of Louisville, Kentucky. The trestle is raised nearly eight-hundred feet above the murky waters of Pope Lick Creek, where the stone-littered foothills dip into the forests below. Down there, a lone valley surrounds this rural expanse of earth that even the Shawnee have left be for years.

They call this little community Fishersville. As an outsider originating from Massachusetts, I perceive the trestle in a much darker sense: It is the towering skeleton of an ancient fort that still lingers in place by the spells of some queer host; it is a monstrosity connected by mounds of dark woodlands that twist and turn in the distance as high as the clouds drifting in their starry expanses, a monstrosity which shelters secrets deep down within the hollows below.

But despite the ambiguous presence of something wicked that the folk here whisper of during the phases of the monthly moons, they refuse to leave town. Most of them are descendants of people whose forefathers settled here near the river from France, Germany, Ireland and Scotland. Their roots are set so deep that I can only figure they remain due to some irrational sense of nostalgia and feeling of place.

I suppose that is why they share such a pervasive sense of fellowship in Fishersville, although it is not the values of old that bring them together as a community. No, as an outsider I can tell you that it is something far more primal. Paranoia hangs over their heads. A mysterious fear stimulates the nerves within them all, instilled from legends told long before even the Indians can recall. I too know the feeling of finding the hair on the back of my neck stand on end from memories of voices speaking through my dark dreams.

I've felt imprisoned here for the past three years. The former owner of The Mouflon, who goes by the name of Mr. Charlie Hennessey, was a friend of my father's in Boston. He came down south years after the Civil War to become what half of Kentucky would call a carpetbagger. After he opened The Mouflon, he never felt the need to leave because of the money passengers going west provided him for a desperate night's sleep off of the train. As a favor to my father, I agreed to come down here to take over the business so that Mr. Hennessey could move back north to be beside his ailing mother for a while.

I consider myself abandoned.

I haven't heard from Mr. Hennessey since he left. I know now that he fled back to his native state because of his fear of the monster that lurks within the woods of Pope Lick Creek.

The Mouflon still makes money, and I am content with the little staff that Mr. Hennessey has left for me. The Civil War ended nearly forty years ago, and the folk of this state seem to finally all agree upon the revision of the Union. The people here are generally polite. The customers keep to themselves and there are even a few of them whom I enjoy. Of all of my regulars, however, wily old Maurice is the only one I really need to keep an eye on.

Maurice Dupont is a man who depends on the devil's poison to dull the pain of self-loathing, and as a disabled veteran and retiree, the old man doesn't venture out or even work. I suppose out of sympathy for his reluctance to leave The Mouflon, I allow him a free suite most every night in exchange for a few hours of voluntary maintenance and cleaning.

"Lawd have mercy on that pretty little thing's soul," Maurice said, finally lighting his pipe and bringing us back to the topic of Molly's mysterious fall. He flicked the flame from his smoking match, and I drew my attention from the stars outside to find that empty look upon the old veteran's leathery, gray-bearded face. "Folk whisper tales of something far darker than ghosts residing in them woods and out an' among them shores o' that there murky crick. Folk say Old Bendy hisself wanders here an' there, holdin' counsel with the Shawnee."

Maurice tilted his head around his shoulder to glare at Patrick Rootblood, who was collecting soiled dishes from the cleared tables.

The big Cherokee, whose coyote sniffed out Molly Finnegan's body, was as stoic and curious as the Hunter's Moon itself. Although his grandmother came over to the Appalachians from Ireland, the Indian hated Caucasians more than he hated the Shawnee. Mr. Hennessey had left only Katherine and him to tend to the dishes, serve drinks, cook and clean when he placed me in charge. They have remained the only two of my tiny staff whom I have been able to afford to keep around long enough to get to know personally.

Patrick spoke to nobody except Katherine Lefevre's youngest boy, Toulouse and her adopted daughter, Molly Finnegan. My distrustful customers whisper rumors, imply that the uncouth man prevented his coyote from devouring Molly's wounded body. They say that he carried her back to his cabin in the hilly woods and nursed the young woman back to health with the best medicine of his people.

Maurice turned back to our table, grunted his prejudiced suspicion my way and polished off the last of his draft.

"What is she, son, the girl that Injun done took home with 'em, huh? Round 'bout the tender young age o' fourteen or is she—"

"My sister is seventeen!" shouted a small voice from under the high table. I glanced around and smiled as a dark mop of hair trotted by under the table. Little Toulouse jerked a stool over between the two of us, but not within reach of Maurice's thick arms. Slapping the towel over his left shoulder that he had been using to wipe down tables, he hopped into his claimed seat.

"And Molly ain't gone mad neither, ya doddering old goat! She just been frightened really bad, is all. Patrick said so." The eleven-year-old's soft brown eyes held a defiant stare over the old man's glazed, blue ones.

A nimbus of smoke a few shades grayer than Maurice's beard blew over a released belch from his beer-moistened lips as he pierced the child with a dangerous glower. I laid a protective hand upon Toulouse's shoulder.

"Get that damn hair out o' your face boy, so I can look at them pretty eyes that your momma gave you."

"That's enough Maurice," I warned, releasing my grip over the boy and slapping my open hand upon the table. The sound reverberated throughout the room and the old man's now-depleted mug rattled over the eerie silence.

Maurice's bushy white brow furrowed, and he stared me down like a dog. But like the abrupt and ever-changing pace of the wind in the hills, so changed the aging drunkard's mood as he thought better of striking me or the boy. As he blew an impressive ring of smoke, his gut erupted with the jolly laughter of a loving grandfather. He ruffled Toulouse's hair and the boy jerked his head away.

"I apologize, boy," Maurice said. "I ain't meant no offense. Have mercy on my ol' soul for seemin' so rough. It were just the southern comfort talkin'."

Toulouse offered no acknowledgment and moved his stool closer to me. He was a good boy and I was not about to let the old fool upset two Lefevres in one evening. Patrick Rootblood was the closest thing the boy could call a father. Being as unpredictable as Patrick was, I feared that if he overheard the man harassing the child, trouble out of my control could result. Despite his unapproachable demeanor, I liked Patrick and the work he did for me.

Like Patrick, I sympathized for the Lefevres. The bastard that got Katherine pregnant had fled to Louisville with his mistress to make a life in the developing city. The poor woman and her boy couldn't afford a decent home afterward. They have lived upstairs ever since. Due to her situation, I've paid her more than Patrick for allowing Toulouse to wipe tables and make beds after school and during the summer.

"You're not having another drink tonight, Maurice," I said. "And if you provoke anybody else, I'll refuse you a room and send you home to sleep with your wife!" Maurice's face reddened. He snorted and extinguished his pipe.

"Is this how folk up North treat an ol' crippled man, you sum'bitch? I lost my damned leg in..."

Hooowwwooooolllllooo!

Katherine burst from behind the counter at the queer sound piercing beyond the hollow of the train trestle and into the night. I drew a knife from my boot as Toulouse dove into my lap. Maurice, dry-heaving in bouts of anxiety, stumbled out of his chair and got on all fours like a dog.

Patrick, brooding in the background as he ate his supper, remained still and continued to nibble at the steak and vegetables on his plate. The meal-time I allowed him wouldn't permit any interruptions.

"It's only Lambsear, you fat stupid white man," Patrick grunted between bites, not looking up from his plate. "He's howling at a train."

Not a moment later, the whistle of a locomotive could be heard over the rumbling of its wheels echoing over its path upon the trestle.

"Oh, Lawd have mercy!" Maurice choked on his heavy panting as he struggled to get both his natural and artificial leg to hold ground under the bulk of his torso. "Why the hell do you keep that beast like it's some sort o' durned basset hound, Injun?"

"Lambsear ain't no beast, you gray-faced old codger!" Toulouse shouted. "He saved my sister's life!"

"Bah! Dumb Injun's wolf is a dumb animal just like hisself!" Maurice pointed a shaking finger at Patrick. "He should be out in them woods with his tribe, just like his dog should be out there with his pack. Would have eaten Molly all up without even thinkin' twice, ya durned little twit!"

"You don't know nothin'," Toulouse said. "Fat, ugly, old troll!"

Katherine grabbed Toulouse by the ear. "Watch the way you speak to an elder," she scolded as Toulouse yelped like a hurt puppy. I put a hand upon Katherine's shoulder to calm her. I couldn't stand the thought of the child being punished for standing up to the detestable behavior of the old man.

"Come now, Kathy, he's just standing up for blood." I said. "I've already warned Mr. Dupont about watching the words that come out of his mouth in my place of business." Patrick watched the production in restrained silence until another uncanny sound struck the atmosphere outside.

What sounded like heavy cloven-hooves moved upon the oak deck just outside, followed by wretched screams and maniacal laughter upstairs. Katherine began to cry out in anguish over her poor Molly's madness. A look of stern worry on his face, Patrick grabbed his steak knife and slipped it in his boot as he ran upstairs to retrieve Mad Molly Finnegan.

"Kathy, are there any guests upstairs tonight?" I asked.

"No," Katherine said between sobs.

"Then take Toulouse and find a cabinet in the kitchen to hide in. Do not come out until we say. Maurice, get off your arse and barricade the windows!" Without hesitation, they obeyed. Grabbing another knife that I kept in a holster at my belt, I crept to the front door to ensure it was locked.

"I saw the shadow o' somethin' out there!" Maurice called from the final window, which he had secured with a wooden shutter. "Wouldn't venture out for a while if'n I were you. Wait for the stink o' sulfur to go away."

Patrick came back down the stairs, cradling Mad Molly in his strong but, gentle arms. He approached the fireplace and set her upon a cushioned chair nearby. Feeling her forehead with his firm cheek, he kissed the wispy line of her soft hair as she giggled with empty eyes. I never saw Patrick Rootblood smile, but the look of intent concern on his fierce, yet handsome face was enough to draw me away from the tension and fear of the moment.

Folk claim that Mad Molly Finnegan's brown doe eyes never blinked since Patrick found her near-dead in the creek. I would never notice such a thing. If you ever saw the soft eyes of a sweet Irish girl like Molly, then all you'll ever see them as is open; engulfed by full eyelashes and framed by dark, distinctive eyebrows. Her thick, mahogany hair's red highlights illuminated in the firelight and fell over her soft white skin, flushed in gentle rose. Her lips were lush and full, and she had a small dimple in her left cheek that folk say an angel of mercy kissed before she left her at Katherine Lefevre's doorstep.

Sitting down with the kneeling Cherokee, Mad Molly laughed. Why she hadn't said a word since the incident, nobody had been able to say. Under her ruffled green and gray dress, Patrick claims he'd found scars from a sharp instrument he guessed was a woodcutter's ax.

I left the bar momentarily to retrieve Katherine and Toulouse, and to ensure Patrick a moment of peace with her before her family smothered her with their affection and shared grief. When I returned, I found Maurice back to his usual spot where he sat feigning confidence, without his comfort of drink. Katherine approached Molly, but only Toulouse was naïve enough to run over to hug her leg. Patrick kept a protective eye on both of them.

Although I knew little about what had overtaken Molly's mind and left her to die in the creek, as I watched her sitting there, I couldn't stop thinking about one detail in particular that I felt would draw me into the brink of insanity. Patrick said that when he found Molly, she was covered in the queer, coarse hairs of a goat and strands from the mane of a horse.

"What am I going to do with her?" Katherine looked to me with eyes red from the constant tears. "Look at what a mess she's done become! My momma says that I should go find Toulouse's father in Louisville an' beg for 'im back. She says the mick ain't no blood o' mine. Drop her off in St. Magnolia's Asylum!' How could the woman be so cruel and—"

"Should listen to your momma, Miss Lefevre," Old Maurice cut in. "That boy o' yours ain't man enough to survive more an' a hard day's work in Louisville. The carpetbaggers there'd swindle every penny out of a sweet, pretty little thing such as yourself without sommin' to protect you."

Craaaccckkkk.

The fist of the big Cherokee had shattered an old table, leaving his knuckles and fingers running with blood and loose skin. The sound of the dying fire lighting the dim dining hall was all that was heard as eyes all about the room looked upon Patrick Rootblood. Maurice gave a noticeable quiver, but held a defiant chin.

I gave Patrick an approving nod, although he was too angry to notice.

"Shut your damned mouth, old man! A monster we know little about lurks somewhere in the shadows outside." The Cherokee heaved a furious breath and fell silent for a moment. His face changed from anger to woe as he turned to peer outside the window. "I fear for Lambsear's safety. His loyalty will likely get him killed this evening."

He turned to face Maurice.

"I would fear for your wife back home, where you leave her every night. She sits all alone in that small, dark, wood-covered hole by the leg of the trestle. The very woman that you swore an oath to your God to love and protect until the day that you die is now at your mercy. You have no regard for human life."

Maurice snorted, but held his tongue. At his age, Maurice was no match for a man of Patrick's strong physique. A moment passed, however, and to my surprise it seemed as though, if only for a second, that the old man's glazed eyes were about to tear up with the expulsion of some long-imprisoned emotion.

"Being at that there house we done shared ain't gonna do that woman's soul no good," Maurice said. "I ain't ready to join her at home, quite yet. The world done went cold in the months when Hades took his bride on down to Hell. I ain't no Orpheus to go an' march on down into them woods to retrieve her."

"Bride," I whispered under my breath. Squinting at Maurice, the old man's queer words repeated in my head as though I'd heard them whispered in a dream. He was apparently more drunk than I'd imagined.

Katherine's sudden fear of the old man's behavior overcame her long-held anxiety over the Cherokee's mysterious solitude, and she broke down to consult in him.

"What are we going to do about my poor Molly?"

"The Hunter's Moon has three days passed," Patrick said. "It's time for this dead town to quit cowering within their homes at night and seek the identity of this monster. None of us have ever seen him and yet during the phases of the last three moons before winter, we all scatter like frightened children."

"But this is the first time anyone has ever been harmed by whatever demon is taunting our dreams!" Katherine shouted. "What did it do to drive poor Molly, mad? Why wouldn't it just kill her?"

"I seen 'im!" Maurice exclaimed.

I wasn't surprised.

The old man cleared his throat while reaching for his pipe once again. His alcohol allowance depleted, Kentucky tobacco was the only comfort that remained.

"Another story, Maurice?" I asked. "I should have paid you years ago for your tales and fired the piano man."

"Been 'round this town since most o' ya were but gleams in all your daddies' eyes. I helped built that there trestle an' killed Yanks in the hills not far from here. I been drinking an' hunting in them woods and fishing in that there crick. I done more an' just hear o' the devil. I done seen 'im!"

Little Toulouse's eyes widened in anticipation. "What he look like, Mr. Dupont?" the boy asked eagerly. Maurice's bearded face widened to reveal a toothless grin.

"'Bout time your boy learned some respect, Miss Katherine. I suppose the youngins will always behave for a tale. And the good Lawd willin', I got a hun'erd of 'em. But this here ain't no tale."

"Enough of this, Maurice!" I said. "Have you seen what attacked Molly in these parts or not?"

"With my own two eyes! That is, long 'afore I got this ol' blue glaze over 'em. 'Twas an early dawn the day it happened. Before the sun were ever even close to risin' over them hills. Lawd, it was a swelterin' mawnin' in a muggy summer hotter than Hell. Supposin' the good Lawd was sore with me, for I was skippin' my visit to his house on the Sabbath with intentions o' drinkin' with some boys from the war.

"Now, I had Roy, Clem an' Sticky with me an' I'd reckon we was 'round twenty-six or twenty-seven at the time. We was fishin' for bluegill in the crick an' couldn't see a damn thing if'n you weren't used to using the light o' a fire an' a full moon like we had to in the war.

"Now, you can imagine we was all a bit drunk, but what I saw that mawnin' weren't no pink elephant. Actually, Roy spotted 'im first: The shadow o' something awful an' inhuman. I ain't gonna mention what he was up to because the boy is around," Maurice winked at Toulouse, "but I'll say that it even made Sticky done spill his breakfast in the water. That there's significant because he'd seen a man lose his head by the shot of a stray canon. We was all terrified, stone-still by the water."

"What happened?" Toulouse asked.

"I done brown myself, boy. It were the most terrifyin' thing I ever did remember, when that large head turned our way. It walked towards us an' there weren't no way to go but up into them woods to get lost in his domain. The thing was fast and done revealed itself in the light of the Summer Moon an' our campfire."

"You know what it looks like?" Patrick asked.

"It were as tall as any man I ever laid eyes upon, with the black-furred head of a mountain goat with two big ol' horns juttin' from his forehead. His eyes were two empty green orbs piercing us with his malice an' a cold suspicion that sent chills down my spine. His goatee was scraggly and he had black hair that looked like the mane of a horse, hanging down his back like a dame's. Now his torso, odd as it were, was the lanky and ebony-skinned torso of a withered ol' man. His legs were powerful, short an' stout. They was covered in the thick, black fur of a goat with cloven hooves at his feet."

"A phooka," I interrupted. Maurice squinted in irritable confusion.

"What in the hell sort a' talk is this, son?"

"My grandfather used to tell us tales of creatures in Ireland that his father learned from storytellers and lore; kelpies, banshees and phookas are the ones I remember. What you just described is exactly how he used to describe a phooka. They would offer weary travelers rides on their backs and then carry them off to abandonment."

"Well now, I'll done be the first to tell y'all that ain't all the sum'bitch is capable of," Maurice continued. "Staring at us with that lifeless empty glare, it held that rusty wood-cutter's ax folk say the damned thing carried around."

"Patrick says my sister's body was covered in the wounds of a blade!" Toulouse exclaimed.

"Well, if'n they came from Ol' Bendy's ax, I'd done reckon he didn't swing too hard, son. That or he intended to keep Molly alive for some strange reason, come to think of it. The bloody work he'd just done to the men in the crick did more an' just break skin."

"And just how did all of you escape, Mr. Dupont?" I asked with skepticism.

"Well, matter o' fact, Mr. Drink Warden, all of us didn't escape. The thing shrieked the most terrible noise I ever did hear and attacked Ol' Roy when he went for his knife; hacked the sum'bitch up 'afore he ever even had the chance. Now, I ain't never seen Sticky nor Clem again an' wish to God that I knowed what had happened to 'em. I don't remember much, but when I woke up to the sound o' that creature's awful shriek, I done felt some awful wound on my noggin from the back o' that thing's ax. I didn't know nothin' before that, I tell ya. I opened my eyes an' found myself in a bone-filled cave deep within them woods that I never did want to see again."

"Then how did you escape, Mr. Dupont?" Toulouse asked.

"I done let myself out, son. Weren't anyone there to stop me. When I done emerged into the light o' day, I found myself in some queer copse o' trees by the crick."

I laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation.

"And you never told anybody?" Patrick asked, irritation building in his booming voice.

"Tell me, Injun, would you go tellin' a tale like that to folk? Even in Fishersville, the people would take you as a loon, but not because they don't believe ya. You wanna know the real reason why they'd lock ya up in Ol' St. Magnolia's?

"Because they fear to believe ya, is why."

Maurice was as silent and serious as I'd ever seen him.

"Of course they'd take you as a loon, you old goat!" I shouted. "How the hell could something like that possibly exist, Maurice?"

"Folk tell many different tales o' where a creature like that'd come from." The old man turned his head and peered outside the window with the shutters that never fully closed. "All the doors in this place locked?" He asked.

We all heard a sudden, awful creak in the woodwork of The Mouflon, followed by the call of some unknown carnivore outside in the near distance. The fire flared and the air seemed to stink of mildew. To me, the brooding growl carried by the wind among the trees sounded like the angry cry of an ancient Dane yelling bride in broken English. Mad Molly erupted with laughter.

In unison, Patrick and I both nodded our heads for Maurice to continue; an agreed silence within the room pretended that nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred for sake of our own sanity.

"Some folk say that the Shawnee tribes north o' here whisked Ol' Gooseberry to summon a demon to kill all the white men an' Cherokee tribes o' the south. Some sort o' Shawnee witch that were famous in them woods down there," Maurice said.

Patrick grunted. Whether his aggravation was over the old man's prejudice or the ridiculousness of the statement, I wasn't sure, but Maurice ignored it just the same and continued his suggestions on the origin of the creature.

"Some folk say the Pope Lick Monster is really a circus freak by the name o' Sarges de Lafayette, who done escaped from 'Franky O' Flanagan's Clan o' Incredulous Carnies.' They say he done killed the cruel ol' mick with that ax of his an' made a home for hisself in them woods."

"That one I've heard, Maurice. And I've been living here for only a few years," I said. "Everyone in Fishersville has probably heard some variation of that old tale. They are just stories told to scare children and justify the sanity around here." The old man pretended not to hear me.

"Another tale I done heard is that the thing used to be a doddering old man, who was touched in the head from ol' age. Folk used to say that he done liked to go out wanderin' up on that there train trestle after dark, speakin' in tongues an' howlin' down at the devil. No one never done stopped him cause they was afraid o' his ol' glowin' eyes and that he had no family to care for 'em.

"Folk say a demented taxidermist found him after he was hit by a train up on the trestle and took him home to stitch him up with the head an' legs of a goat. Now, what the taxidermist didn't expect is for the damned thing to still be alive! He sat up from the taxidermist's workshop, grabbed a rusty wood-cutter's ax he done found on the wall an' hacked the man up 'afore returning to the woods to make his home under the trestle."

"That's the one I believe!" Toulouse exclaimed from behind me. I was surprised to find that he had crept behind my leg during the old man's absurd stories.

"My father used to tell that story to me an' my brothers when we was just children," Katherine added.

"And what good is this to us, Maurice?" I asked. "What good is the word of a wretched old drunk and his love for attempting to frighten children an' entertain young women, eh?" I glared. We were wasting time sitting around giving Maurice the attention he craved.

Little did I know of the outburst that my frustration would cause. My father always said, "never call a man a liar, unless you're ready to brawl over it."

Maurice Dupont's eyes pulsated with the blood of a stiff vein pumping in his neck and up through his temple.

"I done swear it on my momma's grave that it's true!" Maurice stood and threw his mug against the wall near the fireplace. Glass exploded and Katherine yelled out. "I seen it and it never fled my dreams ever since! It's out there. It hates us being here. It hates the trestle! It hates Fishersville!"

A mad rage overtook the old man's senses.

I couldn't tell what made Mr. Dupont lose his mind that night. Whether it was from the influence of alcohol, his pipe, dementia or even a combination of all, I'll never know. To this day, however, I still believe that it was something else. Something that only Mad Molly could explain if she was ever right in the mind again.

He picked up his barstool and looked around with a hideous grin, as if crazed voices were coaxing him to heave it at one of our heads.

"It hates children an' women an' the Cherokee! It don't want us in its lair no more! The bastard is the work o' the devil hisself!"

Katherine screamed and Toulouse gripped my leg. Mad Molly Finnegan remained seated and laughed.

"Patrick!" I shouted.

The Indian and I restrained the old colonel with much resistance. In his incoherent rage, Maurice snapped his fake leg trying to kick out at me and received both a black eye and a bruised lip from Patrick.

Luckily, The Mouflon came with a telegraph that Mr. Hennessey had left for the convenience of guests and promises of contacting me when he was ready to return to reclaim the tavern. Katherine ran to the back and contacted Sheriff Macgregor while Patrick and I attempted to restrain Maurice. After a couple of tense moments, it became easier as his aged body fatigued. Sending Toulouse into the back with his mother, I momentarily left Patrick on his own as I ran upstairs and retrieved some rope from my quarters. I returned and together we bound the old man.

"It'll eat anyone it sees! Don't y'all understand? It done captures children and drags them to Hell as slaves! I done seen it with my very own eyes!" Maurice snapped his jaws like a wild beast, spitting and kicking.

Then he revealed another part of his tale that would haunt me for the rest of my days. In the heat of the moment, Patrick and I believed it to still be the ravings of a drunken lunatic. Yet, I was fazed at the sudden coherence of his final words.

"Molly belongs to 'im now, Kathy, an' there ain't nothin' ya can do bout it! The sum'bitch is a servant in cahoots with the devil hisself! He done stole my love away from me an' made her his bride 'afore he done got bored with her!" Maurice started sobbing out loud. "I done sold my soul an' our home to that devil, so that he wouldn't kill me with that horrible ax o' his. I made a silent pact to never speak o' what I saw! He's out there right now, ya bastards, calling out for his new bride!"

Patrick gave him a blow to the head that knocked him out cold.

Not long after the big Cherokee laid the old man low, Sheriff Macgregor arrived. After speaking with me and filing a report, the sheriff ordered Maurice Dupont to be taken away that night. He never did grace The Mouflon with his presence again. Folk even go as far to say that from the captivity of his padded cell in St. Magnolia's, he never saw the light of day again, neither.

Tired and ready to lock up, I saw Katherine and her son safely upstairs to their room. Patrick, ready to head back to his cabin with Molly, promised the Lefevres that he and Lambsear would take care of her until the day he died, and I knew he meant it. Taking care of Molly seemed to awaken a sense of love in the Cherokee's heart that he never knew before. Little Toulouse said that he wouldn't sleep that night until Patrick went upstairs to tuck him in. Patrick, to my surprise, happily obliged.

I stood near the front door as Patrick came back downstairs. I smiled a look of approval over his protectiveness of Little Toulouse and Mad Molly that night.

"Before you leave, Mr. Rootblood, would you accompany me to the Dupont residence? I think it proper to tell his wife what happened to her husband."

"Yes. It would be proper," Patrick nodded, retrieving his coat. "Lambsear will come with us."

I didn't argue. I never thought I'd desire the company of a coyote for comfort. Folk around town always told their children to stay behind locked doors at night through the full phases of the Harvest, Hunter's and Frost moons—the final months before the deep freeze. There was something about the air during those strange times that made our world within the realm of the trestle silent, a silence that dulled the senses during the day and taunted our dreams with threats at night.

Patrick took Molly by the hand, and we stepped out on to the porch into the bitter night air. Whether the lingering Hunter's Moon remained full or not, we couldn't tell, as the clouds blanketed stars, filling the woods with gentle, October snow flurries. Patrick whistled into the dark while fair Molly squeezed his strong hand. At his call, the large panting coyote emerged from the woods and shook the wet snow from his developing winter coat. Together, the four of us set forth on our way toward the tiny shack where we believed that Mr. and Mrs. Dupont had taken residence for the last forty-some years.

Picking our way through the dead trees of the season, we came across a winding goat-path, which Patrick claimed would drop us off near the area where Maurice built his home. Crunching over discarded leaves and mossy branches, we cautiously trod the woods in the dark night. After twenty tense minutes of walking, we finally caught sight of the house, resting below a hill with a clearing.

We gazed at the tiny, worn structure. It sat near one of the legs of the trestle and nestled adjacent to a shallow part of the creek, surrounded by a thick and secluded copse of trees. Even by the sight of the dwelling in the dark, I knew that I'd seen woodsheds in better condition. This lonely little home cried out for more than just repair.

"The man probably hasn't seen the old wretch in years," I said.

"Pitiful." Patrick said. "Why take a wife if you have intent of abandonment when the inevitable grace of youth and vibrancy fades? Why can't a man and a woman grow old together and still hold onto the love and thoughtful intent of joy when they first laid eyes upon each other?"

A look in the Cherokee's eyes hinted at something in the brooding man's past which I knew I'd never decipher.

Lambsear began to growl. His fur sprung up on edge, and he raced for the door of the home.

Mad Molly screamed and laughed in an odd twist of ecstasy and fear, following behind the canine that had saved her life.

"Molly! Lambsear!" Patrick didn't hesitate to run after his beloved companions. I followed him down the hill and crossed the flat stones of the creak to the house. The disturbed woman and coyote struggled to get into the door.

"Help me break it down!" Patrick shouted and we took the shabby door down with two forceful kicks apiece. Together, the four of us entered the Dupont house, and a dank smell overtook our senses.

Our very spirits froze.

The interior was even less roomy than one would imagine. The light of a tiny fire, which someone had left burning in the small chimney, revealed the entire vicinity to us in a drear glow. Tin cans, splintered chunks of wood, torn clothing, rank meat, and excrement littered the floor. The home lacked furniture, but queer symbols of some bizarre language were scratched into the walls and painted upon the floors with the visible remnants of dried blood.

In the far left corner lay a moldy mattress with signs of a recent occupant. The layers of crinkled bed sheets and blankets were covered in scruffy black fur and the tangled strands of a black horse's mane.

A lantern's light reflected on a rusty, wood-cutter's axe, which rested against the corner wall.

"God have mercy on us all," I muttered.

Patrick, his mouth agape, contorted his face in shock.

Lambsear barked at an opening in the wall near the chimney. Taking a step closer, I peered beyond the clutter and mold festering upon the baseboards, and what was exposed to my eyes through that frail light offered by the fire nearly took my breath away.

There sat a cluster of bones. I saw a small cracked skull, a pile of gnawed ribs, some undecipherable chips and what looked to be a blackened femur.

Patrick didn't attempt to stop the coyote, who slid past the pile of human remains and into the opening in the wall. Once inside, Lambsear yelped and the sound reverberated against dense hollow walls. It stirred us all into further anxiety. The Cherokee looked as though he would get on all fours and enter the hole to save his canine from whatever unknown danger lurked within, but the coyote soon sprang from the hole with the leg of what looked to be a deer in his jaw and his tail between his legs. The coyote curled up in the corner with his prize, snarling when Patrick and I attempted to go near him.

"What in the hell is wrong with him?" Patrick asked. "I can't see any wounds on him anywhere."

I took a deep breath.

"I think that your dog found the cave that Old Maurice awoke from so many years ago, " I said. Patrick gripped Molly's hand as she stood mimicking Lambsear's snarls. "I'd say that there are plenty more bones plaguing whatever decrepit little chamber he emerged from. I can't fathom what caused him to yelp, but I don't wish to linger here any longer."

"Where is Mrs. Dupont?" he demanded of me, as if I'd know. After an awkward moment of silence, we looked at one another with an awful revelation. Maurice's absence of the cabin that he'd built so long ago; his insane behavior after I called his story a lie; those bones near the chimney and that dreadful hole: all were enough to assure us of the woman's death.

"Almighty," I said. "Folk used to say that there were other reasons beyond impotence that caused Old Maurice Dupont to abandon his wife to the mercy of the woods under the Trestle. I wonder how long her bones have been resting in that hole."

Lambsear's fur stiffened and he dropped his deer leg at once, growling and barking with a fierce, protective rage. Molly jerked away from Patrick's hand and raced out the door. She ran under the trestle and followed the edge of the creak faster than Patrick or I could ever imagine.

"Molly!" We called out together.

Then, that queer voice that spoke to us in our nightmares returned to us. It reverberated within our pounding skulls at the peak of our final, desperate attempt to save Mad Molly. "Molly Finnegan!" We shouted to drown out that strange voice and leave it behind forever.

* * *

"To look into the eyes of the monster and speak to him will drive one mad," the chanting voice had warned us. "Every so many decades the creature seeks a bride that he maims into submission and carries off into Hell for ceremony. After so long he grows bored and devours them within the cabin that he has made for his earthly shelter."

Patrick would tell me later that it was the voice of the Shawnee Priestess that had summoned the creature centuries ago, speaking to us beyond the grave. Although her voice was an unknown language to both of us in those unspeakable verses of some ungodly séance that I will never come to terms with, I had no reason to doubt what the Cherokee had said to me.

What other explanation could I have accepted?

Her horrible song echoed throughout the valley and into the night where we had last seen Molly Finnegan.

"She shall never resist his call!" the voice threatened at last, as the light of the Hunter's Moon seemed to burst from the clouds. Within its pink light reflecting off the water, I swear I saw Mad Molly Finnegan chasing the shadow of a large bipedal creature with the head and legs of a goat and the lean torso of an aged human. A slave of the devil himself, she followed the Pope Lick Monster into Hell itself, folk say, for we never saw her again.

Fishersville was never again haunted by the horned creature, and over the years the nightmares of the folk who stayed here settled into placid dreams. Patrick and I made a silent pact before we parted that night. With the contract of Maurice Dupont's soul broken, together we burned the lair of the monster, hoping that at last, the souls of those whom that devil tainted in Fishersville could finally be laid to rest.

* * *

Editor's Note

by Casey J. Winters

Recently, I decided I wanted to create an outlet where writers and artists could tell us their best, otherworldly stories, either with words or with art. I wanted to create a journal where I could, in turn, share those speculations with you, dear reader. _Cygnus_ is such an outlet. The duality of "Cygnus"—a spatially distant constellation, as well as a bridge to Grecian mythology—represents everything our journal is striving for: the coupling of science fiction and fantasy. Like the cover suggests, this flagship issue is an abduction into other realms. Thank you for coming along for the ride.

For more information, or for subsequent issues, please visit cygnusjournal.com.

