 
A PENNY DOWN THE WELL:

A SHORT STORY COLLECTION

OF HORRIFYING EVENTS

Written and Edited by J. A. Crook

Cover Art by Georgios Dimitriou

Typesetting by Matt Davis

Copyright © 2013 by J. A. Crook

All Right Reserved

This is fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are fictitious. Any likeness is coincidental.

Do not reproduce this book. Making or distributing copies of this book is copyright infringement and will subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

For Anais
TABLE OF CONTENTS

DOWN THE DRAIN

THEIR LAST RIDE

A PENNY DOWN THE WELL

THE WHEEZING MAN

OUR SPIRITS OUT WEST

PREVIEW OF AMID THE RECESSES: A SHORT STORY COLLECTION OF FEAR
Down the Drain

"So, what do you think? It's not, um—" The manager of the shoddy, fourth story apartment stalled but went on with his pitch. "It's not so bad. Could use a little work. This apartment was a difficult one. The last tenant had a serious metal allergy. Weird, huh?" The building manager scratched his sweaty neck.

Jared looked around from the threshold of the apartment's open door. The paint peeled from the walls and the wooden floors needed replacement. He walked in and the floors creaked and groaned under his feet. A cold must filled the air.

The building manager placed his hand down on the counter separating the kitchen area from the living space. The tile rocked under his weight. He stepped away. "And, you know, you can't beat the price!"

Jared stood middle of the room and looked over the space. He sighed and admit in a defeated tone, "I'll take it."

"You will?" The manager asked with wide eyes. "I mean, you will! Alright, then I'll draw up the paperwork. Remember, it's a six-month lease, but that's not a problem for you, right? You look like a classy guy. No problem at all! I'll be back. Acquaint yourself with your new apartment, mister!" The chubby man trot outside into the hallway. He banged a fist against the door of a neighboring apartment as he passed. A thumping bass blasted back against the knocking.

"Turn it down in there, Matt!" The manager muttered as he continued toward the elevator. "How many times do I have to tell that kid?"

Jared examined the apartment. The kitchen was bare and dirty. Jared noticed that all the faucet handles were plastic, which he expected of a cheap place. It reminded him of building manager's comment about the prior tenant's metal allergy.

Jared stepped through the bedroom into bathroom. He looked into the mirror over the sink. Long streaks that looked like baked flatworms ran across the mirror, each a few inches. Jared brought his face closer to the mirror. A black line ran through the middle of his reflection and split him in two. He noticed a bumpy texture in the streaks that bubbled from the mirror. He swept a finger across the bumps. A residue stuck to his fingers at he touched the mirror, both clearer and thicker than water. He brought the residue to his nose. It smelled like copper or dried blood. Jared turned on the sink. A tapping sound rang through the narrow metal faucet but no water came from it.

"No water." Jared shook his head. "Can't stay here if there's no—"

Water burst from the pipes. A red sludge shot into the sink and washed away as clearer water flowed in.

Rust, he thought.

He returned to the bedroom. The room was small and would barely fit a queen-sized bed. The carpet's edges were flat from traffic. White adhesive strips littered the walls, arranged in squared. Jared assumed it was how the prior tenant hung frames.

"No nails." He said to himself. He touched a strip. It lacked tackiness.

Jared stepped into the living room. A blonde, twenty-something year-old leaned against the living room wall. The boy wore bright colors, highlighted through a tie-dye shirt.

"Hey, man." The boy said. "You moving in here?"

Jared looked past the stranger and into the hallway. The neighboring door was open. Music blared from the open apartment. Jared assumed the apartment belonged to the boy in front of him.

"You usually just walk into stranger's apartments?" Jared asked.

"You left the door open." The boy said.

Jared looked to the boy's open door. He said nothing.

"Just trying to be friendly, man. I can leave if you'd—"

"No." Jared lifted a hand. "It's fine. Sorry. I'm Jared."

"Matt." The boy said.

"Good to meet you." Jared wasn't sure he meant it.

"Can't believe you took the place, man." The boy brushed the long hair from his face. His blue eyes were bright and showed intelligence. His voice made him sound stupid, high-pitched and erratic.

"Used to know the old resident here. Crazy bitch, you know?" Matt said. "I live right there." He pointed back to the open door.

Jared's eyes followed Matt's finger. The constant thumping of the music made Jared wince.

"Why was she crazy?"

"I don't know, man. She just was."

Jared thought Matt's response was typical of a young person—they knew everything about the world and were too good to share the secret.

"Well, I'm not crazy." Jared said. He tried to not sound defensive.

"Hope not." Matt looked at the doorknob on Jared's front door. "Anything weird about the doorknob?"

Jared's brow rose. "The doorknob?"

"The lady that lived here used wrap a plastic bag around her hand before opening the door. Told you—crazy, man." Matt shook his head.

"I heard she had a metal allergy." Jared stepped to the doorknob and examined it. Normal.

Matt laughed. "Yeah. Whatever, man. I'll catch you later."

Matt stepped around Jared. The smell of pot wafted from Matt's clothes. Jared made distance between Matt and him. He stood in the threshold of the open door. Matt stepped into his apartment and closed the door behind him. Jared glanced to the doorknob again, turned it left then right, and then closed the door.

Jared took care of the apartment paperwork and moved in the few belongings he owned, mostly by himself. As he brought in the large objects, like the bed and an old Salvation Army couch, Matt was in the hallway and offered to give him a hand to the beat of his usual anthem. The music made for a productive mood, beating like a heart or the hammering of a nail. The rhythm drove one foot in front of the other until he was moved in. Matt observed the apartment. The apartment seemed weird to Matt. Jared didn't. The prior tenant had a metal allergy. A metal allergy seemed impossible in the city, like an allergy to the sun.

Jared thought the place could use a little paint. He thought about HGTV and other "home" networks that freshened up old places. Glamorous hosts would say, "A fresh coat of neutral paint can make an old place look new!" Jared hoped so. As he crammed the flat-head screwdriver beneath the lip of the white paint's lid, his phone rang. He stood, checked the number, and tightened his grip on the screwdriver. Emily.

"Hey." Jared said after reluctantly answering it.

"Jared, it's Emily." A chipper voice, a stark contrast to Jared's these days, answered.

"I know, Emily. What's up?" He opened the paint can lid with the phone on his shoulder.

"I needed to ask you for something. I was hoping you could help me out." Emily suggested.

Jared paused. He took a deep breath and shook his head. "What do you want?"

"Well..." She paused. "You said that you were going to sign the car over to me. I need that done soon. Like... tomorrow?" The question was a little more reserved.

Jared looked at the paint. It wasn't white enough. "Can I ask why?" Confused by the sudden rush. They'd only separated a week before.

"Well..." She paused again. "I was thinking that since we weren't going to use the car for work and I don't need the space, I'd get something a little more myself."

"A little more yourself?" Jared thought for a minute if they made cars that broke hearts, sequentially smashing them to bits with each push of a piston until they're ground into mince.

"Can you do it or not?" She spit out.

Jared was quiet for a minute, pouring the paint into the paint tray. He rolled the paint roller back and forth in the thick, white mess and made her wait. He wasn't sure if he wanted to just have her attention for a minute or if he didn't want to answer. Eventually, she chimed in.

"Jared?" Emily asked.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll come by and sign it tomorrow." And he hung up the phone.

Jared painted into the night. He wiped away scars on the old wall and tears from his face. The next day, he felt closer to losing Emily. He loved and hated her. It felt miserable caring. He stopped when the music from Matt's apartment did and he went to bed.

Jared placed his wedding ring on the small nightstand next to his bed and stared at it. He thought about his five years with Emily and about their happiness. His life went to hell. He remembered Emily confessing that she didn't the marriage anymore. The confession was sudden and inexplicable. She "wasn't ready" after five years of commitment, and she "felt like life was passing her by." Clichés. Jared could do nothing but think that whatever was wrong was something she wasn't telling the truth about. The truth didn't come in the face of divorce. Jared felt like he deserved an explanation. Instead, he stared at the ring that once shined with the promise of eternity. Jared saw tarnished metal and he thought of the scarred walls beneath the coat of white paint.

The next day's sun came despite it all. Jared woke and rubbed his eyes, but pulled his hand sharply from his face as he felt a sting while curling his fingers. He examined the rash on his hand and his palm and fingers. The rash was worst around his ring finger. He looked to his nightstand and noticed his ring was missing.

Jared leaped out of bed and rushed into the living room. He checked the locks and they were fine. He reviewed the windows and everything seemed fine. Jared returned to the room, but paused near the bathroom. He noticed his ring sitting on the floor near the vanity cabinet. He approached the bathroom and peeked around the corner of the door's threshold before entering. He leaned down, finding his ring in the same strange liquid he'd remembered from the mirror. Jared shook his head, looking around the bathroom for any sign of what could have happened. He shifted and looked back into the room, where his bed and nightstand sat. "Did I knock it off?" He asked himself. Maybe it just rolled in, he thought. He looked for liquid's source, but there was no sign of moisture. Jared curled the ring into his hand and took it back into the room with him. He dressed and put the ring into his pocket.

Later that day, Jared made it out to the old house where Emily and Jared spent their time together. It's where they fell apart. Jared sat across from Emily at the table while she signed documents. Jared imagined the breakfasts they'd have at the table. He thought about when he'd cook if she worked early or she'd cook if he did. They'd laugh and smile, share stories and hopes for the day. Thinking about those days put a smile on his face.

"Alright, you just need to sign here and here." Emily pointed to two different places on the long, complicated document. Jared signed. He signed away as he did with the house and everything else he didn't want. It was something he thought he could do to show her how much he cared, to give her everything that he had. Jared wanted Emily to see that. She didn't. Emily went through the documentation without skipping a beat. Her disconnection confused him.

Emily took the papers and nodded. "Thank you, Jared. I know this is hard for you."

"Is it hard for you?" He asked.

Emily held the papers in front of her chest like a shield made to repel Jared's question. "Of course it's hard for me. I wish you understood."

"I wish I did, too." He replied. He looked down to the empty table. No eggs. No bacon. No pancakes. No coffee. Nothing they loved.

"What happened to your hand?" Emily asked.

Jared shrugged. He lifted his red hand and looked it over. "I don't know." His eyes focused on the red ring around his finger where his ring was the day before. The mark there was significantly worse than the irritation on his palm, and he couldn't help but think of the woman and her metal allergy. The worst of the rash resembled the ring.

Jared stood and pulled his coat back over his arms and back. "Anything else?"

"No. No, that's all. I hope you feel better." Emily said from behind her paper shield.

Jared nodded. He stepped to the door. He looked down to the doorknob and used his left hand instead of his right to turn it and push his way out.

Jared returned to the old apartment after a stop at the grocery store. He picked canned beans and frozen vegetables to hold him over. Instead of the elevator, he took the stairs. He was certain it was only a matter of time before the elevator decided to become a death-trap with the way things were maintained here. Jared returned to the rhythmic thump once he reached the fourth floor and Matt popped out as Jared passed his door, as if he had been waiting.

"Hey, man." Matt said.

Jared halted for a moment to see if Matt would say anything else. Matt was dressed the same. He either hadn't showered or put on the same clothes as the day before. "Hey." Jared said.

"Just thought I'd let you know that some maintenance guys were coming through the building earlier. Stopped by my place, think they might have went into yours, too." Matt said, leaning against the threshold of his open door, his words nearly inaudible behind the blaring beat.

Jared's eyes squinted as the sound seemed overwhelming with the door open, and brought him to wonder how Matt could endure it all day long. "Aren't they supposed to notify me beforehand or something?" A reasonable question, he thought.

"They're supposed to do a lot of things, dude. Have you seen this place?" Matt laughed, red eyed narrowed in a strange surveying of Jared as he stood in the hallway, holding his two grocery bags. He continued, "You bring those so you can open your door, man?" Pointing to the bags. He laughed.

Jared looked down at the bag of canned goods and shook his head. "No, I'm going to use these to stay alive. Thanks for the suggestion, though." Jared headed toward his door down the hall. Matt remained in his wake, bopping his head to the rhythm. Jared stood in front of the door and stared at the doorknob. Before turning it, Jared looked over his shoulder to see if Matt was still watching, and he was. Matt's head and neck stiffened and revealed his attentiveness. Jared shook his head and turned the knob with his right hand and pressed into the apartment. He closed the door behind him.

Jared placed the groceries on the counter partition between the living area and the kitchen. Open windows aired out the room and allowed light to cast inside.

Long streaks in the fresh paint were missing, revealing the nasty, discolored paint below. Jared shook his head in disbelief before he examined the room. Similar streaks of missing paint were everywhere. "You have to be kidding me." He crouched beside the wall and examined one of the wall's streaks. It smelled of mold with a viscous residue coating. Jared stood and looked around the room for a source. A clanking sound came from the kitchen sink. He spun toward the sound. Nothing obvious. He moved across the room and pulled the cabinets below the sink open. Nothing. He stood. "Rats?"

As Jared put away his groceries, he considered the maintenance personnel Matt mentioned were responsible for the damaged walls. He considered that they may have been careless while working. He decided not to worry. Emily stayed on his mind.

That night, Jared repainted the damaged spots on the wall. He made it right. He assembled the dishes in the house in the sink and began washing them quietly, or as quietly as he could, with the sound of Matt's music in the background. Through the horde of bubbles and water, Jared could see his bare hand, stinging slightly from the irritation. Again, he thought of Emily. He thought of how badly he wished he could turn everything around. He thought of how he wished that she wasn't systematically removing him from her life, and wished he wasn't systematically going with it. He wanted a life with her, like the one he shared with her in those five years. He wanted to know what changed in her.

As Jared finished the dishes and dried his hands, he stood over the sink and stared into the empty basin. His shoved a hand into his pocket and pulled out his wedding ring. Slowly he slipped it over the crest of his finger, but he paused, feeling the pain start to kick in, especially with how tightly the ring fit. He took a deep breath, and as soon as he prepared to push the ring down onto his finger, there was a knocking on the door that startled him. The ring that was prepared to move back onto Jared's finger slipped from him entirely and first fell into the sink, then rolled, despite Jared's efforts to stop it, right down the drain.

"No! Damn it!" He scrambled, trying to reach into the drain as much as he could, but his hand was too large to fit. The knocking came again. Jared pulled open the cabinets beneath the sink and stared at the pipes. The trap, he thought, would have stopped it. He'd just have to find a way to get it out. The knocking came again. "I'm coming!" He yelled, frustrated. Jared rose from the open cabinets and stepped to the door.

Jared opened the door to the fat, sweaty building manager. He seemed impatient and prepared to knock again as the door opened.

Jared answered with an irritated, "Yes?"

"Ah, Jared. Hey! How're you? How are you liking the new place, huh?" The manager began with small talk, peering a bit over Jared's shoulder to see the new paint. "Painted the place, huh? Looks better. Well, that'll make my job a little easier."

"I'm fine." Jared wasn't fine. He could hardly pay attention to the building manager. He thought about his wedding ring sitting in the old, murky trap of the sink pipes, and he considered the irony of it all. "What job?" He assumed the visit concerned the maintenance visit or the damaged walls.

"Well, seems to be some apartments in the building that have, you know, some problems." He paused and scratched his hairy neck.

Jared grimaced as the manager's Vienna sausage fingers slid through damp, curly hair. "Problems?" Jared looked back over the apartment. He thought there were plenty of problems. "Like?"

"Well, Jared—" still delaying, "—You know these damn Chinese bastards, always sending out things with things in them that shouldn't be and so." The manager said without saying much.

Jared stepped in. "Tell me what's wrong with the place. I don't have time for this right now." More assertively.

"Alright, kid, calm it down. There's some apartments that have lead-based paint in them. Some cocky inspector came through and found some of it. So, we're gonna have to do some work to stay in 'code.'" It's gonna be a hassle, but since you painted the place, I think we can wait a while before we get into this one." The manager said, as if the paint rid the place of poison.

"Lead-based paint? Seriously?" Jared said in disbelief. He asked immediately, "I heard there were some maintenance people in my apartment the other day." Jared kept quiet about the unexpected maintenance visit. "Did they do anything? Tear away paint from the base of the wall?"

"What? No. All I heard was that they walked in, saw the place freshly painted and walked out." The manager said.

"They didn't do anything at all?" Jared didn't believe him.

The manager shook his head. "Jared, we wouldn't do anything to damage any of your stuff. We're respectable people, we like to take care of our community. They're like our family, you know?" The manager gave Jared a smile seemed fake.

Jared rolled his eyes. "Whatever. I have to get back to business." He stepped back from the door.

"Listen, Jared, twenty dollars off this month's rent, for all of your trouble." The smile widened on the manager's face.

Jared stared at the man in his doorway and shut the door in his face. He left the manager standing an inch or two from solid wood. Jared turned around and looked the room over. "Lead-based paint. Pests. Creaking floors. Loud neighbors. I fucking feel like family here, alright." He pushed from the door and head back into the kitchen sink.

Jared assessed the pipes under the sink. He knocked on the curved trap and listened for rattling metal. Nothing. Jared had no tools. He tugged with his hands and tried to pull the pipes apart. They didn't give. He thought about kicking the pipes off but considered the damage it could cause. He decided to wait until morning.

Jared took a long shower that night and thought about the day. He was a day closer to divorce. He thought about his wedding band sitting in the disgusting drain of the decrepit apartment. He felt like he'd abandoned a friend. He knew there was nothing he could do. He'd be patient. As Jared got out of the shower, he heard his phone ring. He wrapped a towel around his body and ran toward the sound. Emily.

"Hello?"

"Jared?" Her voice shook.

"Yeah. What's up?" He'd known her well enough to understand something was wrong. There was a hurt in her voice he knew. Jared loved this deep understanding of her.

"Jared." Emily began to cry. "Jared, I'm so sorry. I know this has been difficult. It's been difficult for me too. I wish things hadn't turned out this way. I just..." She paused.

"What is it?" Jared asked. He slid down against the wall.

"Is this all a mistake? Should we try harder to work this out? I think maybe I'm just confused. This seems so dumb, you know? But..." She paused again.

"But?"

"I don't know. I just don't know what to do. How to make it right again.

Jared felt hope. "How about you come over in a couple days? We'll have dinner. I'll show you the new place? Maybe we can talk?" He suggested. Jared thought that if she saw the place, she'd understand his capacity for sacrifice. He wanted a chance to talk to her in person. It may have been his last chance to fix their problems or to understand what went wrong.

Emily whispered, "Okay."

"Okay. Get some sleep. Everything's going to be alright." Jared said. He thought of the ring in the sink. "I'll talk to you soon."

"Goodnight." She said.

"Goodnight."

That's when something unexpected occurred.

Clink. Clink clink.

Jared sat up in bed. The sound came from the kitchen. He threw his legs off of the bed and stood. He rubbed his sleepy eyes and tried to make sense of the apartment in darkness.

Clink clink.

Jared moved into the kitchen. He picked up a hammer he'd bought in a few days earlier to replace the sticky film with nails. "Alright, you little bastard." He expected a rat. Jared moved around the counter partition between the living area and the kitchen and waited. There was silence for a long time before he heard it again, from near the sink. He twisted and held the hammer high in his hand. He crept toward the kitchen sink, one foot in front of another. 'Don't worry, little guy." He whispered as he neared the sink. He stopped and waited. There was a different sound that came, which sounded like a guttural grunt. Jared's head cocked to the side in bewilderment.

Clink clink clink.

The sound came from the sink. He thought about his ring. Jared sprung into action, afraid that if he didn't act quickly, the pest in the drain might try to scurry off with his ring. He flipped on the kitchen light and pulled open the cabinets under the sink. The drain trap was dripping with what looked like water, but after quick inspection, it was thicker. Jared took a deep breath and squeezed the hammer in his hand, ready to kill. "Alright, fucker, time to die!" He smashed the hammer across the trap pipe and knocked it clear off. Jared shot backwards and crawled toward the refrigerator. His ring fell from the broken pipe, but from the pipe that remained, a long, salivating tongue rolled around in circles and searched for the ring. Grunts came from the pipe.

Jared's heart beat faster than he thought possible. He put the hammer down beside him and slapped his face twice. "I'm dreaming. I'm dreaming." If he was, the quick blows didn't wake him. He gripped the hammer again. "What?" He shook his head and the tongue withdraw into the pipe.

Jared rolled onto his knees. The pain in his hand shot through his arm as he crawled forward. He kept the hammer handy. "H-Hello?" Jared asked. He realized the absurdity of the question. With gnashed teeth, Jared stared into the hole where the tongue hid away. He leaned toward it and stopped a few feet away. "Hel—" He stopped as an eye emerged against the pipe, as an eye would peer through a keyhole. The eye had a sickly green iris and it rolled around until it settled on Jared, fleshy lid narrowing over the harrowing, glossy sphere.

Jared screamed and dropped the hammer. He shot back from the pipe. The eye withdrew and lips, purple and green, came forward. They spoke and revealed rotting, green teeth.

"Give... me... your... metal." The voice whispered from the pipe. The lips smiled, withdrew, and the eye reemerged.

"W-What are you?" Jared said, frightened.

It repeated as the eye withdrew and the lips came forward. "Give... me... your... metal." The eye came forth again, watched Jared and rolled around in its metal socket. It turned its gaze to the ring that fell from the broken pipe.

Jared looked to his ring and shook his head. "No. No, you can't have that. You hear me? You can't have that!" He lifted the hammer from his side and moved toward the pipe. As Jared swung the hammer at the eye, it withdrew leaving only darkness inside the pipe. He held the hammer back and waited, but the eye didn't return.

Jared put a hand to his head in disbelief before he snatched his ring up with his good hand. He grabbed a rag from a drawer and sprayed it with bleach from a spray bottle. He stuffed the rag into the open pipe. He backed away and examined his ring. Muck covered the ring. It smelled of mold. Jared understood the thick liquid here, the mirrors, the walls was the saliva of creeping tongue. He rose to his feet, kept his hammer with him and returned to his room. He looked at his phone. 3 A.M. He considered calling the police, then he thought about what he would say. Yes, officer, there's a monster in my drain. Jared closed and locked the door of his room and closed the vents. He sat up in bed that night with the hammer and waited to see if it would come again. It didn't.

Jared had fallen asleep against his will. When he woke up, he immediately lifted his hammer, prepared to strike in the case that something had sprung on him. As he lifted the hammer, he felt an intense pain shoot through his hand and arm. He looked at his hand in shock. It was red and irritated, with a circular imprint in the middle of his palm where his ring was. His ring, however, was missing.

He cradled his freshly damaged hand close to his body, Jared moved from the bed and toward the door of his bedroom. It was no longer locked. The door was cracked open. Jared pulled the door open and inspected the living area. The walls bore smeared streaks along their bases. "How?" His jaw fell before he stepped out into the living room. His foot came down on something and he leapt back toward the bedroom door. His ring sat on the ground in front of the bedroom door. Jared's eyes shot around before he bent over and lifted the ring in front of his eyes. A thick, moldy mucus covered the ring. Jared whispered as he eyed the golden band, "Give me your metal." He glanced to the walls then the ring. "Lead-based paint." His eyes narrowed. "That fucking tongue is trying to get to the walls!" Jared went into the bathroom and watched the mirror. "Silver? Mirrors have silver. It's eating—" Jared stepped back and shook his head. "Impossible." Jared's eyes glazed over and he tried to process everything that had happened the night before. He heard the familiar ring tone of his phone. He left the bathroom, went into his bedroom, and lifted the phone. Emily. He answered.

"H-Hello?" Jared shook out.

"Jared, it's Emily. Everything alright?" She asked.

"Um." No, everything was not alright, he thought. "Yeah. What's going on?" His eyes shifted this way then that. He expected anything at any moment.

"I was wondering if you wouldn't mind maybe having dinner tonight instead of tomorrow. I'd—" she paused, "—I'd like to talk to you, if you wouldn't mind. Is that alright?" She asked.

"Tonight?" Jared said as he peeked out of the bathroom to the living area, toward the sink. "Any reason for the rush?" He tried to delay. He searched for the unordinary.

"I just have a couple things I want to talk to you about while they're fresh on my mind. You know how things get when everything becomes busy. You forget about the points you want to make, things like that. So?" Emily asked again.

"Um." He paused. "Yeah, tonight will work just fine. How about eight? I'll call you if anything shows up, alright?" He said, not realizing he spoke out of context.

"Shows up? What do you mean?" She seemed confused.

"Comes up, rather. Comes up. That's what I meant. See you tonight. I'll text you the address, okay?" He hung up the phone as she began to reply.

Jared felt his plans were falling apart. He didn't want to seem like a crazy person. He had to get Emily back tonight if ever. Tonight had to be perfect. Nothing could go wrong. He did the only thing he thought he could do. He made an offer to the unknown.

Jared called out from the middle of the kitchen. His hands pulsed with pain from having touched the phone. "Alright. Whatever you are. Listen, I know what you want. You want metal, right? You like metal? You like gold and silver? I'm going to make you a deal, okay? This one time, you and me." He paused. He heard a groan from the building, as if it shifted on its foundation. "Okay. Listen, you stay out of my business tonight and I'll give you gold. Okay? When she comes here, you stay away!" He cried out again to no response. Jared had no idea what he was doing, but it was his best shot. He wanted Emily to see the place. He wanted to make her feel sorry for his living conditions. He wanted to make the best impression he could and he couldn't deal with a tongue-filled drain. It had to work.

Jared took a shower and stood a distance from the drain. He washed his hair with his eyes open and felt the sting of the soap as it dripped into his eyes. He stared at the black little hole and waited for a tongue to fling out when unprepared. Nothing came. He dressed and repainted the walls of the apartment. They were white again. Not white enough, he thought. Jared prepared simple meal. He fetched his water from the bathroom sink. He thought it safer, as it was a distance from the kitchen pipes.

There was a knock on the door. Jared looked at his watch. It was too early for Emily. He opened the door to Matt. Jared's gauze-wrapped hands caught Matt's attention.

"Doorknob get you?" Matt laughed, unsympathetic.

"What do you want?" Jared asked with blunt force. He tried not to seem impatient.

"Heard noise coming from your apartment last night. Wanted to see if everything was alright." Matt said. He seemed genuinely concerned. Matt's eyes darted over Jared's shoulder. It was obvious to Jared he was merely curious, not concerned.

"Everything's fine. My wife is coming out tonight. I was just doing some last minute... cleaning." Jared said, with little confidence after the short pause.

"Wife? I didn't know you were married." Matt said with surprise.

"It's complicated. Still, everything's fine. I'm hoping it'll be a nice night." Jared smiled. "I do have a lot of things to do. Was there anything else?"

Matt shook his head. "No, man. Have fun with 'the wife.'" Matt grinned and stepped back from the door. He bopped his head as he waded toward the pulsing sound of his apartment.

Jared called out as he was walking away. "Matt, do you think you could turn down the music tonight? I'd like to have a nice night and the music's distracting." Jared tried to reason with Matt.

"Sure, man. I'll turn it down." Matt lifted his chin toward Jared, in a nondescript sign of "getting it." Jared nodded and stepped out of the apartment. He headed to the jewelry store.

Emily was a fan of jewelry. Jared thought jewelry was an enormous waste of money. He never understood the symbolism. He conceded from his own ideas to do whatever he could in the last try at getting Emily back. He'd hold nothing back.

"That gold one there, with the diamond? How much is that?" Jared asked the salesperson as Jared's reflection stared at him in the glass. The jewelry case's lights glowed in a way that made the diamonds inside glimmer.

"That one there?" The man reached into the case after he unlocked it. He lifted the small display toward Jared and showed it off before he gave the price. "One-thousand for that one, Sir, but I could give it to you for nine-hundred?"

"Nine-hundred?" Jared didn't have that kind of money, but he had a credit card. All the stops. Jared thought about it and lifted the necklace with gauzed fingers. He thought of the voice from the kitchen pipes, "give me your metal." He shuddered then nodded. "I'll take it."

The salesperson clapped with a delighted smile. "Wonderful. Let me package it up for you, Sir." Then he did, in a ribbon-strewn, decorative box.

On the drive home, Jared popped open the case of the necklace. He glanced at it in the passenger seat as he drove along. The necklace was a symbol of a new beginning. It meant that him and Emily could put everything behind them, move on. It seemed simple to Jared. He wanted to remind her of his love and his willingness to sacrifice. He imagined Emily would feel pity when she saw the apartment and be mesmerized by the necklace. Everything was going to work. It had to.

When Jared arrived at his apartment, the music was down. He and he called out a quick "thanks" as he passed by. There was no response. Inside, Jared cooked the meal he'd prepared and dressed in his best clothes. He put the necklace and case inside of pocket of his slacks. Jared cooked the meal then stood over the sink with both gauzed hands on the sides of the metal basin.

"Listen. I know you want metal and I have it, alright? You just stay in there and out of view until we're done here and you can have every bit of metal you want. I don't imagine I'll be staying at the apartment long." Jared said into the drain's abyss.

He heard the building's pipes groan in response. Taps and ticks echoed through the emptiness. The pipes below his feet and above his head sounded as though they were twisting and contorting. Jared accepted it as a response—maybe even an agreement.

The knock came. Jared tugged on his collar, ensured it was crisp, lit a couple of candles at the table, and made it to the door when the second knock came. He opened the door to Emily, who looked solemn, and then disturbed by the apartment behind him.

"My God, Jared, what is this place?" She said, concerned while looking over his shoulder as Matt had earlier. Matt, too, stood in the hallway. He chewed on potato chips and stared at Emily. Emily peeked over her shoulder to Matt.

"Come in." Jared escorted her in and he narrowed his eyes on Matt, who returned a wide, greasy grin.

Inside of the apartment, Jared removed Emily's coat and placed on the couch's back. He presented the space with a swing of his arms.

"So, what do you think? It's not much. I just painted." Jared said.

Emily looked around the room for a long time. She didn't smile or frown. Her face was still like a doll.

Jared intervened. "I made us steak and asparagus. Our favorite." He dashed off toward the kitchen to bring back the pan of asparagus first. The plates were already at the small table at the edge of the kitchen. With a pair of tongs, he placed the asparagus on the plates.

Emily migrated from the center of the bleak living room. She ran a hand along the old, Salvation Army couch and her red lips rose at one end. He knew that she disapproved. She wore a simple white dress, white always a color that Emily wore well and one that Jared thought highlighted her purity. Glossy white heels made her perfection. White enough, he thought.

"Why don't you come and sit down?" Jared asked after he placed the pan down. He pulled a seat out for her at the table and waited for her to finish her inspection of Jared's furniture.

Emily looked up to him with a smile, her eyes glossed in the dim candlelight. She nodded and stepped toward the seat and sat. "I'm sorry, Jared, if I had realized—"

Jared stopped her. "No. I wanted you to be alright. I can't have you living like this, so I want you to have everything. Really." Jared smiled, but an unknown feeling weakened it. It was enough for Emily to see.

"Why, Jared? After all of this? Why aren't you upset with me? Why aren't you mad, or spiteful?" Emily asked, confused. She sounded like she wanted anger and spite.

Jared served the steak and sat down across from her. He poured two glassed of wine and avoided the question. The silence created a thickness in the air. She waited for his answer in suspense. He cut into his steak and Emily chimed up.

"Are your hands getting worse?" She pointed to the bandages that were over his hands. She didn't notice them before.

"Yeah, I think so. I'm not sure. It might be some sort of reaction to a chemical I used, or the paint or something. I don't know. I'm sure it'll clear up." Jared said. He put a fork-full of steak into his mouth and chewed.

"Don't you think you should go to the hospital?" Emily asked with her brows knotted

"I don't think it's that big of a deal, Emily. I'm sure it's going to be just fine. I don't have anything else to paint." Until that thing decides it wants to come out and lick toward the lead, Jared thought. He continued to chew and kept his expression cheerful against the odds. He wanted everything to work. "Why don't you try it? It's really good. I left it rare, the way you like it."

Emily looked down to the steak. She stared at it like a dead pet. She cut into it and smiled after mouthing a "thank you." She took her first bite and closed her eyes in gentle bliss. "Mm."

Jared knew that Emily loved great steak. She kept a great form, exercised compulsively, but when she sat down and indulged, she was in heaven. Emily opened her eyes and nodded to Jared with a wide, satisfied smile.

"It's delicious." Her mouth still full of the rare steak. He remembered their brand of comfort.

"I'm glad. So, did you get the new car?" Jared asked. He cut into the asparagus.

"Yes. A new sedan. Keyless-entry, automatic everything. A real sharp gunmetal color."

As she stated the color, the pipes in the apartment groaned. Jared's eyes shot to the sink. Emily wasn't the only one that enjoyed her meals.

Jared stuttered a response, "Oh yeah? That's great. I'm glad you found something you liked." He tried to be happy about the purchase, but he wasn't.

"I am too." She said. She put her fork down on the plate.

Jared's brows rose. "Something wrong?"

"I've had trouble lately. I feel so lost, Jared. I feel like everything is changing so quickly." She stared at her fork. Her hands came to the table and she kept quiet after her confession.

Jared listened in the silence.

"The past few nights when I've been in bed, alone, I just think... did this all have to happen this way? Why is everything so complicated right now?" She confessed. She drank a large swig of wine and asked for a refill.

Jared filled the glass and kept his eyes on hers. "Emily, I thought this is what you wanted. You said you weren't sure you were ready." He felt a twinge of anger saying it aloud. "You said you were confused. I thought it would be best if you had space, you know? Comfortable space, space your own." He missed their space.

"Yeah." Emily sighed. Her eyes were on Jared's, but he knew she didn't see him.

"Emily..." Jared paused and placed a hand on his thigh. He felt the necklace case in his pocket. "It doesn't have to be this way, you know? We can still work this out. We can get counseling. We can start over. Get to know each other again. Date, maybe, like the old days?" Jared smiled. He placed his hands over Emily's. Her hands shook under his.

"Jared, I..." She lowered her head and her eyes glossed with tears.

Jared stood from his seat and stepped around the table. He pulled the necklace case from his pocket and opened it. In the dim light of the kitchen, it shined like a star. "I got you something I thought you'd like." He smiled. He didn't want her to go any further without seeing it.

Emily's eyes widened and her hands shot to her mouth. "Jared! Oh. It's so beautiful!" She squealed. She looked up at him and shook her head as a tear broke from her bright eyes and ran down her cheek. "You bought this for me?" Her mouth kept wide in awe.

"Yes." He knelt down beside her chair. "I don't want to give up on us. I know that you're confused. I know that you're unsure about us, but think about how great we are together. Think about how much we trusted each other and how comfortable everything was. We were perfect, Emily. You're perfect. I want you to have this as a symbol of how much I love you. I want you to really know." He pulled the necklace from the case, unclasped it, and moved around behind her.

Emily sat silent. Beneath Jared's fidgeting fingers, he felt her tremble. When he finished, he moved to the front of her and admired the diamond hanging near her breast. "Emily, it's—" But she cut him off.

"I cheated, Jared. I slept with someone else. I fell in love with him and that's why all of this happened!" She shouted out and burst into tears.

Jared's eyes went wide. His mouth fell open and he shook his head. He felt he didn't hear her right.

"I don't know, I was just so confused about everything. I didn't know what to do! He just swept in and changed everything and..." Emily paused and looked up to Jared. She saw only shock. "Jared?"

The pipes groaned.

"Jared. I'm so sorry. I know you'll never forgive me."

"You love him?" Jared broke his silence, his words glossed with a spiteful hiss.

"I... Jared, I'm so sorry." Emily plead behind a voice mangled by tears.

Jared took a deep breath. He heard a sound. The rhythmic beat of music rose from down the hall. The beat penetrated the walls and intervened in a moment that deserved silence. There was something industrious about the sound. Jared lifted Emily's plate from the table and dumped the remaining food onto the table's surface. He swung it the plate into her head and knocked her to the ground, unconscious. Emily laid there in front of him with her head at his feet. He clutched the broken plate in his hand. The necklace hung on the old wooden floor and the pipes groaned. A rattle came from beneath the sink, a grunt. Jared knew something stirred.

"You did this, Emily. We had everything and you didn't think it was enough." Jared stared down at his unconscious wife, entranced with madness.

A voice came from below the sink. "Give... me... your... metal." A grainy rasp.

Jared looked back to the sink. He leaned down and grasped both of her wrists with his gauzed hands. Jared dragged her to the thumping beat of Matt's music. The date was over. Jared didn't care. He dragged Emily across the stained floor until he reached the cabinets below the sink. Jared opened the cabinets and was hit by the harsh smell of the bleach that he soaked the rag in. Jared leaned down to Emily and looked her over. Blood trickled down the right side of her bruised head. Jared's lips neared the wound and he whispered. "I loved you." He pulled away. Jared shoved Emily's head beneath the sink, where the diamond necklace caught the dim light of the kitchen for the last time. He pulled the rag out of the pipe, uncorking it. A foul must filled the space.

Jared left her there, with her head stuffed beneath the kitchen sink. He walked into his bedroom, turned off the light, locked his door and went to sleep. He slept to a serenade of crunching.

RETURN TO THE TABLE OF CONTENTS
Their Last Ride

"You can get anything on the internet these days, can't you?" Clint Baxter browsed the classified ads in amusement.

"Almost anything." Kaylie replied, sitting in the seat beside him at the local library, a place the two of them, long-time friends, came to visit and enjoy mindless browsing of the world wide web, a marvel yet after having been available for such a long time. So was the way of a medium of endless possibilities, both good and bad, moral and immoral, but always full of something fresh and new, or unavoidably provocative.

Clint clicked on the link that said simply said "cars." He saw a wide array of used vehicles, from classics to modern muscle, smart and inefficient. He sighed, glancing the way of Kaylie, who was already snooping the screen he was navigating.

"A car? Seriously? You don't even have a job, Clint. Speaking of which, when you do intend to get on that? You know..." She pointed to a link on her screen. It read in blue "job listings."

"My car is such a piece of shit. Maybe I can get approved for a cheap car-loan or something. No point in getting a job if I can't guarantee I'll make it there every day." His mouth hung open as he looked at vehicles far out of his price-range.

Kaylie shook her head, and though she agreed with his rationale, it was important to have an income if one had a loan. She went back to her own browsing, settling for the "missed connections" link on the page and said, softly, "I wonder if anyone is longing for me after a seeing me at a stoplight or chewing on my morning bagel." And it made her laugh. Still, the postings were amusing.

Clint browsed to a Chevy Nova in a metallic, mustard yellow. He'd always wanted a sexy car, one that even he'd openly admit to using as a method of compensating for his simplicity. Clint was a thin man, the kind of thin person that couldn't put a pound on if he ate one-half of a burger stand. In high school, he would eat jars of peanut butter until he couldn't move or was sick, because all of the weight-lifters on the football team assured him that it would help him put on weight. All of Clint's attempts were in vain. He didn't gain a pound; in fact he lost weight because of how often it made him sick. Clint thought an old, shiny muscle car would add muscle to him, impress women and make him a ladies man all in one shot. Of course, at almost twenty grand, Clint was going to remain without muscle for the time being. It was then that he came across a strange ad.

"1976 Cadillac Hearse. You've got to be kidding." He laughed, slapping at Kaylie to catch her attention. Kaylie tore herself away from a particularly creepy (likely fake) "missed connection" involving a man that said he saw a woman through her window. Kaylie looked over the ad.

"Um. Creepy?" She said, lifting a thin brow.

"Yeah. I wonder how many dead people were pulled around in that thing." And Clint went on reading the description.

1976 Cadillac Hearse, in great running condition with minor aesthetic damage to the leather interior. Belonged to my father who recently passed and have no will to keep it. Please respond. Looking for $500 dollars OBO. First come, first serve. - Posted Today

"Five-hundred dollars? That's incredible!" And Clint leaned back in his seat as the cogs started turning. "Five-hundred dollars for a 1976 luxury that runs great." And the cogs kept spinning.

Kaylie chimed in with the obvious response, one most people would have brought up. "Five-hundred dollars for a luxury vehicle that hauled a ton of dead bodies to cemeteries. I think the guy should be paying to get rid of it. Who's going to want something like that?" And she bit her bottom lip, staring at the short ad thoughtfully. She looked over at Clint then, who had a look so devious he might as well have grown devil horns atop his head. "You're not considering buying this thing, are you?"

Clint nearly burst out. "Com'on, Kaylie! Why shouldn't I? It's a steal! $500 dollars for an old car that runs great? My car is newer, but it's going to break down on me at any moment here. Shit, I barely made it to the Library." He gestured toward the door of the Library and toward the parking lot outside. Clint knew that if his car was a patient in a hospital, it wouldn't be the type that would receive a quick response when it flat-lined. It had so many problems, from the engine, to the radiator, to the electrical system, that fixing the thing would cost more than getting a replacement. In the case of a five-hundred dollar replacement, the replacement was a better decision hands down, even if it was a hearse.

Kaylie shuddered, thinking about the car. "Aren't you the least bit creeped out that it used to haul dead bodies around? What if there's something in the car?" She asked, without being very specific.

The question prompted Clint to ask, "Like what?"

"I don't know. A finger. Dead... stuff." She was reaching. "Or something else..." And she trailed off, suddenly a bit embarrassed.

"A finger? Seriously?" He paused, leaning toward her a bit as she shied away. "You think this thing is haunted, don't you?" Clint burst into laughter, clapping his hands together. Both of them were irreligious, non-superstitious people. So, for Kaylie to make any suggestion toward the supernatural was hilarious to Clint; a mild appeal to her superstitious upbringing.

Kaylie shook her head, turning sharply in the spinning computer seat to focus on her own computer. "You know what? Whatever. Buy the stupid thing. I'm just never riding in it." She said, dismissively and a little upset.

Clint shook his head. "You know, after that I don't think I should get it. What if it is haunted?" Clint's sarcasm wasn't accepted any more reverently than his skepticism concerning Kaylie's "finger" remark.

"Again, do whatever you want." Kaylie said, clicking absently on a different link on the website.

Clint nudged her again with a smile, trying to convey that he was just playing around at her expense. "I'll consider it. Though, if I get it, I think when you see how nice it is, you're going to want to take ride."

Kaylie smirked and eyed him in a way that told Clint otherwise.

It might have been coincidence, but Clint's car broke down on the way home from the Library. As the towing company shipped his car off to the mechanic, he browsed the web on his phone to find the link to the hearse. Conveniently, a phone number was tied into the ad.

The phone rang before an answer came, "Hello?" The man on the other side said.

"Hey, I'm calling about the 1976 Hearse you have for sale. I was wondering if you still were offering it." Clint asked, waiting for Kaylie to arrive and pick him up from the side of the road. She was never good about showing up promptly to anything.

"Yeah. Seems it's a little hard to get rid of a hearse." And a jolly sort of laughter came through the phone, followed by a fit of heavy coughing.

Clint pulled the phone away from his ear for a moment as the piercing sounds came like machine gun fire at his ear. When it seemed the man was done, Clint returned the earpiece to his ear. "Alright. Well, I'm interested." Clint confessed. The man's comment about having trouble getting rid of the vehicle brought to mind the suggestions Kaylie brought up earlier at the Library.

"Okay. Good! So, what were you looking to buy it for?" The man asked, feeling out whether or Clint was interested in the "OBO" (or best offer) part of the ad or the original five-hundred that the ad requested.

Clint thought about it. Carless, stranded on the side of the road waiting for friend, frustrated about the ill-resolve of the situation, Clint decided to make his life easier in a time when it was rather difficult. "I'll take it for the five-hundred." No wheeling-and-dealing here.

"Ah, great!" The man said, almost surprised. "Okay, well come by whenever you want." And the man gave Clint his address.

Clint told the man to expect him within the next couple of hours. Again, he didn't know how long he'd be waiting for Kaylie, but he suspected he'd have her take him straight to the car. He hung up and thought about the hearse. "Well..." He shrugged, speaking aloud to himself. "Here goes nothing, I guess."

About thirty minutes later, Kaylie arrived. She had to move a makeup bag out of the way in order for Clint to sit down. Kaylie was accustomed to the normal female setup of a woman that was being rushed to do anything. The rear-view mirror was turned toward her and not mirroring much of the rear at all. The flip-up cover of the mirror in her car's sunshade was up and a small light was illuminated to help her see. Small makeup pencils and brushes were in the center console and a flesh-colored powered decorated the interior of the small cubby. As Clint looked over the car, like a detective trying to decipher a crime, it was clear why she was so slow.

Clint piped up, carefully, because she did, after all, pick him up. He put the best spin on the statement that he could. "You know, you don't have to put on makeup every time you leave the house. You look just fine without it."

Kaylie looked his way and lifted a brow as she often did when she was either surprised or offended.

Clint saw the look and back-treaded. "You're beautiful either way, I mean."

Still, Kaylie stared.

"Makeup is just---" Clint started but was interrupted.

"Am I taking you home?" Kaylie asked, straight and to the point, preventing Clint of doing anything to further embarrass himself.

"Actually..." And Clint hesitated. "I don't think I'm going to fix my car. Probably just going to sell it to the scrapyard." And he waited for what he knew was coming.

"So... does that mean you're getting that hearse?" Brow again.

"Would you mind running me to this address?" Clint asked with a wide, helpless smile.

Kaylie rolled her eyes and plugged the address into her GPS.

The place was about fifteen minutes away, in the nicer part of town. Deep within a high-class suburb, at the end of a family-friendly cul-de-sac sat the hearse parked alongside the curb. In this environment, the vehicle stuck out like a sore thumb more than it would in any other. Kaylie watched the hearse as they pulled up and into the driveway of the large, two-story home. The hearse was clean and waxed, glossy everywhere except for the large cover placed over the rear of the vehicle, the place where the bodies were loaded and carried, which was more of a dull black.

Clint watched the vehicle the same, but not in a harrowing, horrified manner. Instead he mentally prepared himself for the vehicle to be his. He'd be driving it back and forth from home, to the grocery store or any other errands he'd be involved with. He thought of the questions it might raise or the looks that he might get. Of course, he was unsure how women would take it. There was a good potential that the car would have a negative effect on his sex life, but so would have breaking down on the way home after a nice date. He considered the possibility that it may be an odd talking point. Fortunately for Clint, there was a more natural resolve in the purchasing of the hearse, one that would be handled by the seller.

Kaylie parked the car and the two of them emerged from it as an older man with a large belly and freshly pressed plaid shirt came out of the home.

"Hey! I'm Bill." And he extended his hand toward Clint, assuming it was him that he talked to and not the woman.

Clint shook the man's hand with a business smile on his face. "Clint. Good to meet you. So that's her, huh?" And he turned back, putting a shading hand over his eyes to look out toward the hearse as though it were a distant and beautiful vista. Vehicles, whether they were used to purr under women's seats behind the power of a roaring V8 or haul dead bodies around were all given a feminine "her" referral. Some of the ladies were just uglier than others.

"Yeah, that's her." Bill played the same game. He walked toward the vehicle then, spouting off attractive attributes as though he still needed to convince Clint to buy the car. What Bill didn't know was that Clint was driven here because the only one he owned was getting ready to become a block of aluminum somewhere in a dirt graveyard, one that received a little less respect than those the hearse frequented in its days. Clint listened and smiled while Kaylie sat back, mildly interested, but still fairly repulsed by the idea of her best friend driving around in the casket-mobile.

"It sounds great. Can I write you a check?" Clint asked. He hadn't done a lot of deals this way, with people he didn't know and had met only through the internet. By the looks of the man, Clint thought maybe it was something new to Bill as well.

"Sure, that'd be fine. You know, I should tell you, too. I don't know what you do for a living, but my father was contracted out by the Loveland Funeral Home down on Fifteenth Street. He made a pretty decent living. We've been in the funeral business for a long time and it's done us well." Bill informed.

Clint looked back at the two-story house in the beautiful suburb and could agree that the funeral business must have done him very well. "And they're still looking for a driver?"

Kaylie took a step toward Clint, every bit prepared to stop him from taking Bill up on the offer before any more information was exchanged. She remained a quiet third-party because she didn't want to interject any sort of ridiculousness of her own, but she still managed to strongly disagree with the idea. Her wide eyes watched the two men discuss the subject.

Bill nodded. "Sure are. It's not a bad gig. You should consider it." And Bill turned, stepping back toward the house. "Let me get the keys and my glasses. I'll be right back."

After Bill was gone, Clint displayed that devious smile toward Kaylie once again. "So?"

"So?" Kaylie responded sharply. She started off loud, but neared Clint and spoke in a whisper, though her words had a sharp tone about them. "Clint, it's one thing to buy a hearse as your normal operating vehicle, but it's another thing to take a job as a driver and tote real-life dead bodies in the back of it!" It was that sort of whisper-scream.

Clint, as always, focused on the important matter at hand: Kaylie's word choices. "Real-life dead bodies? Kaylie, they're just dead people. Cold stiffs. They're not going to pop out of the coffin and strangle me from the back seat. They're just going to lay there... you know, dead!" And Clint glanced at the rear of the hearse. "I think we've all been watching too many horror movies these days." Zombies were particularly popular.

Kaylie took a deep breath, unhappy that Clint was treating her concerns as something frivolous. At the same time, a part of her realized that it was just a vehicle, that the things he mentioned wouldn't happen and that Clint needed a job. After a moment of collecting herself, she nodded, confessing, but only slightly. "Maybe it'll be alright. But I'm still not going to ride in it." She reminded.

Clint laughed and nodded, accepting that. When Bill returned, Clint wrote him out a check and took the keys and the title to the old thing. He gave a salute to Kaylie as he walked around to the driver's side of the vehicle and she watched him get into it as one would watch the departing of a ship from shore. Once inside, Clint looked over the amenities.

Clint flipped the little tab for the old power windows to ensure they opened and closed normally, a different setup from the concave toggle buttons seen on modern vehicles. The car smelled intensely like leather, which covered all the seating. Slowly Clint looked over his shoulder to the back of the vehicle, examining where they bodies were kept for transportation. There was a set of rollers for getting a casket into the hearse and something Bill called Bier pin plates to secure it, though Bill spoke of that part of the car passingly. There was black drapery that ran along the windows of the vehicle for privacy reasons, which Clint found a bit odd with the sort of connotation that came with a hearse.

He gripped the steering wheel for a moment and felt it out. It was strange, but it was his. Finally, he pushed the key into the ignition and turned it and was surprised that it was a little rough to start. Clint looked out the passenger side window to Kaylie who shook her head.

A moment later Bill started making a motion with his foot, yelling, "It's a carburetor! Push on the gas! You need to push on the gas!"

Clint nodded and pumped the gas pedal as he turned the ignition and the car came to life in a roar of power that shook every bone in Clint's body.

"Wow." Clint said, impressed. A monster V8 sat in this car, too, even though it wasn't one of those beautiful muscle cars. It was a huge difference from his old V4. Clint gave the man a thumbs up, turned the wheel with the assistance of some well-working power steering and drove on out of the cul-de-sac toward his place in his new ride.

Clint turned on the old dial radio, equipped with what might have been a state-of-the-art tape player at the time the car was made, but now was something of a relic. Clint didn't even know where he could get tapes if he wanted them. The rock station was the one he favored and left it at as he pulled up to a stoplight. Beside him were a couple of women in a compact. He smiled and nodded his head their way, as if to say, "You're impressed, aren't you?" While he didn't get a "satisfied" look from the two, there was some quick comments between the two and laughter, followed by an urgency for the two women to stare at the signal light preventing them from fleeing as quickly as they could. Clint shrugged, relaxed back into the seat and waited for the light to turn green. Eventually it did and he made his way home.

Clint spent the night at home watching television absently, thinking more and more about the offer of driving for the Loveland Funeral Home. He wondered if he needed some sort of special permit in order to do something like that. Eventually he fell asleep on his couch.

The next day Clint received a call early in the morning. In the confusion and distress normal of an abrupt awakening, Clint's arms and hands flailed about him in disorientation as he tried to locate from where the sound came. His search ultimately led him to his pocket. He pulled his phone out and answered with a gargled, "Hello?" One that hadn't been afforded the clearing of night-time's restful muck.

"Hello, is this Clint?" The woman's voice came. It sounded a bit older.

"Yeah." As Clint rubbed his eyes, looking at the time. It was eight in the morning, far earlier than a man out of work would normally wake. "Can I help you?" Though he was in no condition to be helping anyone.

"Yes, this is Marie from Loveland Funeral Home. I know that it's early and I apologize, but I was referred to you by Mr. Bill Headley."

"Bill? Yeah." Clint started waking up rather quickly after he realized who it was. "Bill mentioned the Funeral Home. Said that you guys were looking for a driver?"

"Actually, Sir, that's exactly why I'm calling. Since Bill's father, Orwell, passed away, we've been in a bit of a bind. We've been working with another funeral home for the arrangements of a driver, but tomorrow we're out of luck because it seems that driver is going to be at a different funeral. Is it right that you purchased that hearse from Mr. Headley?" Marie asked.

"Yes. I bought it yesterday, actually." Clint thought maybe the woman was suggesting he be available as early as tomorrow, but he considered that unlikely.

"Wonderful. Sir, could I offer you a job in maybe driving and carrying the deceased for that funeral tomorrow afternoon?" Marie asked, expressing that it was absolutely likely.

Clint's eyes went wide. He stumbled in his words for a moment before answering the best he could, "Sure. I can do that. Do I need to do or wear anything special?"

"We'll go over all the details for you when you arrive. We'll need you to come in early though, maybe around this time if that's okay? And you may want to wear a black suit if you've got one. If you'd like to do this for us regularly, you might as well buy one, or we could give you an advance to purchase a suit if you'd like. Of course, we'd need you to sign a contract and whatnot." The amount of information the woman divulged expressed to Clint that he was in a good position. They called him. They offered him the necessary supplies to work for them. It seemed almost too good to be true. It made Clint wonder why they didn't buy the vehicle when it was for sale and maybe save themselves some money, or have one of their own. But, Clint was alright with the arrangement whether he was wary of the pace or not.

"Alright, I'll be there tomorrow at about eight. Thanks, Marie."

"No problem. See you tomorrow, Clint. Thank you so much. You're really helping us out here." Marie said. "Have a nice day."

Clint kept the phone in hand as Marie hung up on the other side of the line, staring forward and very much awake. It appeared that the hearse purchase was going to prove to be a lot more than a cheap way out of a bad situation. Instead, the vehicle managed to afford him a job, though it was one Clint wasn't sure how he would handle.

Clint never had a problem with the deceased. He was one of those, "once you're dead, you're dead" kind of people. The supernatural never appealed to him other than in books and movies. Ghosts and ghouls or old, creepy tales always kept him interested, but he knew that these things weren't real. "Not enough evidence." It was always the best answer. Clint thought more about the social skills required for the job. He didn't think about the dead man he'd be carting from place to place, but instead any sort of interaction that would be necessary with the family of the deceased. People were sloppy, emotional messes in the wake a friend's or family member's death, with an emotional equivalent only matched when one of them are strung up to lines and cords in a hospital bed. Clint wanted the opportunity, thought it was entirely too perfect to pass up, but also hoped the job didn't involve a lot of face time with families.

Clint called Kaylie, asking quickly without much background, "I need a suit. Something simple and cheap. I don't have a whole lot of money left over."

"A suit? What, are you going to cram yourself into a coffin and take a ride now?" Kaylie said, smugly.

"Hah. No, but I might have been offered a job from Loveland Funeral Home to drive around some coffins." He couldn't help but smile at the thought, despite it being fairly morbid to do so.

"You what?" Kaylie shouted. "You're kidding me, right? So, you buy an old hearse and now you're driving around dead people?"

Clint paused for a moment, thought about what she said, and answered with a quick. "Well, yeah. Isn't that what you're supposed to do with a hearse?"

Kaylie sighed. "You're ridiculous, you know that, right?"

Clint laughed. "Are you going to help me find a suit or not? You know I barely know how to dress myself. I could really use your help." The last statement was delivered more pleadingly.

After a short grumble, Kaylie agreed. "I'll be there in a minute. Yes, we're taking my car." And she hung up.

Kaylie arrived at Clint's place in her normal due time and they head out to a small strip mall near the center of town. The place had a few basic suits set up on mannequins in the window, with large, contrasting text that read:

50% off everything in the store! Buy two suits, get the third FREE! Even open Sunday!

The fluorescent oranges and greens of the text scribbled on the window easily devalued the attire behind it, making the place seem more concerned about being cheap than it was concerned about formality. That is what Clint asked for.

They went through the door and a small bell hanging by a ratty piece of string bobbed and bounced off of the glass, jingling in a pitiful cry to whatever attendant was damned to manage the place. It was only a moment before a short man, about as tall as some of the racks began moving through the store, first barely notable by the crest of his head and the swaying of clothes on the racks. The display reminded Clint of a shark in water, revealing only its fin. Of course, Clint wouldn't expect the result of whatever emerged from the sea of black jackets and suits to be anything as terrifying as the ocean predator. That proved true when the bald, pudgy man emerged.

"Hello! Hello! Welcome to Suit Savers, where you save on suits you crave!" The pitch-line, as miserable as it was, came out in a robotic drone. Clint had heard many like it before, especially when calling different businesses. Clint could always tell that the employee on the other side of the line wasn't remotely interested in the "big savings" or "special limited time offers" any more than he was.

"Yeah, I'm looking for a suit." Said Clint, Mr. Obvious.

"Well, you've come to the right place!" Said his twin.

"I don't need anything fancy. Black suit. Something for a funeral." Clint said, more bubbly than most people would if they were buying something for attending a funeral.

"Oh." The sales associate tapered off, looking around awkwardly.

"No, no. It's not for anyone I know." Clint assured the man.

"Going to a funeral for someone you don't know?" The associate asked.

"Well, I'm going to be driving the hearse. I just need to look professional, I guess." Clint cleared his throat, looking over to Kaylie for some help.

Kaylie piped up with the prompt. She explained to the man what sort of styles she thought Clint would work best in. She worked with the associate as Clint wandered aimlessly about the tie area, lifting every obnoxious tie he could find, holding it to his neck until Kaylie looked his way and disapproved with a quick shake of her head.

Eventually everything was handled and he bought a cheap suit that looked pretty good on him despite not being tailored specifically for his body. When he came out, Kaylie smiled and clasped her hands together.

Kaylie mocked, "Look at you, all dressed up. Too bad the only ones that are going to see it are stiffs." And she grinned.

Clint looked himself over in the mirror, admiring the new, formal look. It wasn't his style to dress up, even on nights out. Jeans, an old t-shirt and some shoes he'd had since high school.

"Well, I'd say, if they could see anything on their last ride, it should be this fine, fine specimen, don't you think?" Clint jested.

Kaylie rolled her eyes. "Are we done?" She didn't need any more of that.

Clint nodded and they left. On the ride home, Kaylie was awkwardly quiet. Eventually, Clint felt the inclination to ask her about it.

"Is everything alright? You're not saying a whole lot." Clint asked, watching her as she drove beneath the high sun of the afternoon sky.

"Yeah." Kaylie replied quickly. She glanced from the road to him, then back to the road. "Are you sure you want to do this? It seems really strange, doesn't it? I mean, do many of these companies contract out drivers? Why didn't the company just buy up the hearse themselves?" Kaylie asked some of the same questions Clint did.

Clint shrugged, not very concerned with the questions after he'd proposed them to himself. "I guess they could have. I don't know, maybe they don't have enough staff to have a driver? Maybe they don't like the liability? I'm unsure. According to Bill, they used to contract out to his dad, the guy that owned the hearse."

Kaylie nodded, thinking quietly to herself.

Clint continued. "This is a good thing, Kaylie. I'm surprised you're not happier for me. I have a vehicle that's more trustworthy than my own, despite being a bit older. It was cheap. I have a job. These are all good things, right? So why are you so concerned?" Clint couldn't help but ask. Though the situation was a strange one and things were moving fast, the result appeared to be good.

Kaylie sighed and nodded again. "I don't know. Something about the history of the vehicle. What you'll be doing. It feels sort of sacred. That's somebody's loved one in there. It's not just a dead body. I don't know if you understand the seriousness of it all."

Clint didn't think much about it from that perspective, just like Kaylie assumed. Clint answered in the best way he could. "Do you think nurses and doctors become attached to every single person they care for? I'm sure that they care enough to be careful, to not hurt them, but remain emotionally distant. I don't know the people, but I know it's a person in there. I'm not going to do donuts in the hearse or anything." Clint always tried to lighten situations with humor.

Kaylie broke into a small smile, glancing his way again. "Well, I suppose as long as you're not doing donuts, everything's alright." As if it were her biggest concern.

Clint smiled back and stared down the long road ahead of them. He was looking at more than white and yellow lines, pavement and the occasional roadside trash. He was staring into an image of his future, one that was developing in front of his eyes, where he'd be a driver for a funeral home in a hearse he owned and would operate as a normal vehicle. It was a strange image, but it was his.

The next morning came and Clint dressed himself into the newly acquired suit. He admired himself for a moment again and went out the door as an example of the entire repertoire of what was required for the job; except for the knowledge of the job, which he'd hope to gain in a crash course at Loveland Funeral Home.

Clint would arrive early, as he agreed he would. He came through the large, wooden double doors of the chapel-style funeral home, walked through a mess of wooden crucifixes and pictures of Jesus Christ, each staring at him with the same sort of indignation of his lack of superstition and belief in him. The place wasn't comfortable to Clint and he was happy to be was working behind a wheel and not behind a desk. Eventually he'd reached the office at the end of the hall and a woman somewhere around her early fifties, with blonde hair amassed with an invading gray styled in a fashion that had been out for a decade, greeted him.

"Oh, you must be Clint! So good to meet you. We spoke yesterday morning. I'm Marie, and I'm the manager of the home here." And she looked him over. "You look fantastic." While extending her hand.

Clint accepted her hand with a light shake and smiled to the complement. "Thanks. I was hoping it'd be appropriate. Good to meet you face to face."

"Yes, it's appropriate. Now, I bet you're interested in knowing what you have to do and what you can expect to be paid for each job?" She smiled, nodding as she spoke.

Clint nodded himself. "Right now, Miss, I think just about anything would do." After the recent purchases and withdrawals from his meager savings, he needed the cash.

"We promise to make it worthwhile, Clint. Have a seat and let me explain to you how this is all going to work." Marie sat herself and began the crash-course in being a hearse driver for a funeral procession, his first of which would be today.

Marie explained that typically hearse drivers were responsible for non-procession duties, to include placing caskets in the parlor of the funeral home, obtaining burial permits, and so forth, but she had no intent in making Clint responsible for all of those things. Instead, she explained the speeds he should be going while escorting the casket from the funeral home to the destination of the funeral and burial site as well as the funeral procession arrangement of vehicles. What Clint was to remember was that he'd be the second vehicle in the motorcade, behind a lead vehicle. Clint was relieved to hear he wasn't first. He'd hate to have gone off in the wrong direction while leading a motorcade of highly emotional people. She mentioned flags that indicated a funeral procession being draped over specific vehicles, but not on his own. Most importantly, she said the vehicle needed to remain clean and waxed before attending any funeral and that he would be responsible for the vehicle since he was being contracted. Clint understood and agreed to the terms before being presented with a written contract. Clint took a deep breath, signed the document and rose from his seat.

"Alright. So, what do I do from here?" Clint asked, adjusting his suit after having sat in it for a while.

"I'll take you to meet your client." Marie said with a smile, moving around him with a set of keys for the office. She waited outside of the door, then.

Clint's eyes went wide. He knew what the job entailed, but for some reason actually having to see the dead person (if that's who she was talking about) was a bit overwhelming. He tried to remain as comfortable as he could and went on out the door behind Marie. She closed the office and escorted him to the parlor, where the casket was held.

The casket bore an American flag draped over it. The pictures in the parlor of the deceased had been taken down, but the stands where they once were still remained. Candles burnt on small sconces (an archaic lighting that Clint couldn't help but stare at for some time), flickering and casting wraith-like shadows through the room, each one evoking dangerous superstition in Clint's mind. For a moment, he wondered "I wonder which of these wall-devils are leaving with the grand prize of this fellow's soul?" But, it was a fleeting thought, brought on only by the influence of horror films and his exposure to the beliefs of others. In this moment, the best thing he could do was remain completely unaffected by such thoughts. If there was reverence to be felt for anything, it was the honor of this human being, dead now, but indeed a human being.

Clint was unsure how close to bring himself to the casket, fearing that moving too near to it might have been considered disrespectful, but he could not help catching a glimpse of a bright reflection of something on top of the flag which hung over the casket. Again, not wanting to near it, he asked, "What is that?" And his voice broke through a thick wall of silence, almost frightening himself with speaking. With Clint mildly disoriented, Marie replied.

"It's a medal." Marie said with a smile, less concerned about respectful zoning, and much more objective to the tasks required of the funeral home. This was expressed clearly when she retrieved the medal from the top of the casket. This action, to Clint, seemed almost absolutely inappropriate. To him, if the medal was placed there by someone caring enough to offer it, that's where it should have stayed. However, he also understood the impracticality of that idea. At some point, this casket would have to be moved, then put into the ground, and covered with dirt, likely by two men that throw dirt on graves for a living. With less grandeur than he expected the event of a loved one placing the medal on the casket was during the viewing, Marie extended the medal toward Clint, where it dangled and glimmered like some sort of holy relic capable of repelling the charge of those hungry wall-devils. With a bit of insight, Marie explained it.

"It's a medal from the second World War." And she smiled again, continuing to display it for Clint as she realized he had no will to handle it himself.

Clint looked over the medal with fascination. The ribbon of the medal was a bold, regal red color, framed between two strips of white, then outside of them multi-colored vertical lines. The medal itself was dull when it didn't catch the light, but bore the image of a woman (seemingly of the times of the Roman Empire) holding the hilt of a broken sword, with the blade broken from the hilt in her other hand. She also seemed to prop her foot atop a large helmet and was entirely accentuated by a burst of sharp rays at her flank. It was a profound image and it seemed important. Clint began to relate the incredible importance of this medal to the task at hand, and asked, though it seemed quite obvious at this point.

"So, this person is a military veteran from World War II?" With a hint of concern in his voice.

"Yes!" Marie replied, excitedly. "There are some differences in a military procession, but don't worry. Everything will be just fine, alright? All you have to do is move with the motorcade and everything else will be taken care of for you, alright?" Marie did her best to make the task seem less daunting with the reassurance of guidance, but Clint was still very concerned and so much so that he began to question having accepted the contracted position at all.

Marie returned the medal to the casket as a few larger men, both wearing Velcro back braces, stepped into the room. One of them was talking loudly to the other, with what at first appeared to be a half-eaten sandwich in hand, and was a moment later identified as being tuna by the scent of it and the talking man's permeating breath.

"I know, right? I told her, 'Listen, I'm not interested in a woman that's pregnant with someone else's baby. Ain't my problem.' and I left. Women these days, huh?" All with a mouth full of the formerly canned fish. He looked between Marie and Clint, bald head unable to distract from his bright blue, almost white, eyes. "Hey Marie." One of the two men said as he took another bite, all the while watching Clint like he was some sort of unique, otherwise unobserved scientific specimen. "Who's this?" To Marie, not Clint still.

Marie answered a bit awkwardly, which was the first sign of anything of that mannerism in her. Clint thought it funny: she was fine with the dead and awkward with straight-talk people. "This..." And she paused, gesturing with both hands to Clint, as though he were a "new car" on the Price is Right. "...is Clint! He's our new hearse driver. A fine gentleman whom I'm excited to work with." And she winked to Clint, trying to diffuse her awkwardness. It didn't work.

Clint nodded and extended his hand toward the man. It was the only thing he could think to do. "Clint. Like she said. Good to meet you."

The man with the sandwich watched Clint for a second, ignoring his hand at first. He glanced to the slightly taller, much more silent fellow at his side. "Clint. Like Eastwood? Pow pow!" He made a "gun" with his free hand, thumb and index finger extended, "shooting" at Clint. Clint smirked. He'd heard that wisecrack since from what seemed like the beginning of time. The man laughed then, put the sandwich in his left hand to free up his shaking hand, wiped quickly the crumbs of fish bits and bread to his dark grey shirt and took Clint's hand in a firm shake.

"Larry." The man said, still shaking. He broke the shake to gesture to the man at his side. "And this is Morton." And the large man at Larry's side nodded but remained silent.

"Like the three stooges? Larry and Moe." Clint tried to fire back with a bit of his own witticism. But, if the silence was deep prior to his first words in the parlor, it came on much more strongly in response to his statement.

"What?" Larry asked, narrowing his eyes with the sort of speculation reserved for stupid people. "How do we seem like the stooges? There's only two of us." And he waved his sandwich, his wand of denotation, to Morton. "And his names Morton. Not Moe." He smirked, looking to Marie. "Anyway, Marie, you ready for us to move the stiff?"

Clint was too embarrassed to even make a remark of the dishonorable reference to the military veteran in the coffin, but Marie responded rapidly, seeming, at this point, interested in getting the two men on their way before the impression of the funeral home became any worse.

"The casket is ready to be loaded up." Marie said in a more politically-correct way, returning some balance to the suddenly unromantic scene. With the two men in the room, the majesty was ripped out of it, making the candles simple candles and the casket a box with a "stiff."

After Larry and Morton loaded the casket, Clint went over what was required of him once more. Second vehicle in line. Follow the lead vehicle. It seemed simple enough. The simplicity of the action, however, didn't make much of a difference in the dreariness that came with the transporting of a dead body. As the family members arrived, loaded into their limousines, painted black to match the black-clad mourners, the funeral procession began.

Clint took his time as they went along, occasionally peering into the rearview mirror and being mindful of the bumps in the road. His mind played an image of him hitting a speed bump or pothole too quickly, causing a dislodging of the casket to allow for it to fly out the old hatch and into the road. This was, what he considered, the most precious piece of cargo he'd ever carried---not because it was a dead piece of cargo, but because it was the center of all of today's attention.

When the procession arrived at the cemetery gates, the entirety of them were brought to a halt. The lead care spoke with the attendant at the gate, drawing Clint's attention forward. He was unsure if this was a normal part of the process. With Clint's attention drawn toward the gate, he was unaware of the approach of a person toward his hearse. The door was opened and in sat a tall, broad-shouldered military man, adorned in his service-dress uniform riddled with awards and decorations to his shoulder.

Clint's mouth dropped agape. This, after all, wasn't part of the process. He looked around, absolutely speechless, as if someone would come and save him. Without introduction, the military man (likely of an officer's rank, with the shining insignia) began to speak.

"You never heard anything like it. Travelling across the Atlantic, hearing the screams and cries of your friends and brothers." The military man shook his head, looking out of the windshield, but with a look so distant and a mind so invested in the recollection of his tale, it was obvious the man didn't see the green grass and chiseled stones of the cemetery; he saw the event he was explaining in vivid detail. "We never knew when the Germans were going to hit us. All we knew was that we were on a suicide mission, making a stance against warnings, just sailing through the sea toward England."

Clint looked back toward the casket for a moment, hoping that his glance might help the fellow understand that he was in the vehicle with the actual person this procession was for. But, as Clint's eyes returned to the elder military man, the man's eyes simply stared forward and he just continued to speak.

"I shouldn't have lived that day. There were four ships. All of us were together and all of us should have gone down together. They didn't take us, though. Not sure why it was us. I wonder sometimes if they ran out of torpedoes." And finally the icy gaze of the man fell directly on Clint, almost causing his heart to stop.

Clint looked into the eyes of the military man. They were bright blue, like Larry's in that they were almost white. This man's seemed different, though. They were that color from age or disease. Clint wondered if the man was senile, lost or even partially blind. He hoped that the man looking his way would perhaps make it clear to him that he was in the wrong place. As the military man continued to talk, however, Clint started to recognize that it was quite possible the man was exactly where he cared to be.

"You know what I think really happened? I think they wanted us alive, kid. They wanted us to hear the torment and the screams of our friends and brothers. They wanted us to continue sailing to England with broken hearts and shattered minds. They wanted us to be a disease to the morale of our companies. They wanted us to be afraid, boy." Unblinking, the old man told the tale to Clint, whose mouth still hung open and in awe.

Clint had no idea why the man was telling him this story. Clint signed a contract agreeing to simply transport a body from one place to another. He didn't sign up to hear grim stories of war or deal directly with the family members of the deceased. In fact, Clint's greatest concern was that he would have to be a liaison between the dead person in the casket and the living. This event only triggered all of those concerns, and the harrowing theme of the tale only added a different dimension of terror.

"They all scrambled through the water, waving whatever limbs were still connected to them while trying to stay afloat. Like a fish without a fin, boy. You know what that's like?" The military man neared closer to Clint and Clint instinctively slunk back toward his driver's side window, considering, despite the deliberations at the attendant's stand, jumping right out of the hearse and getting on his way. "The water wasn't even blue. All around us it was red. Red with blood. If I'd ever seen hell on earth, it was in that moment. It was in that moment." And finally the man backed and looked away.

Clint's chest heaved as he searched for a breath. It was as if the heaviness of the man's story sucked the oxygen right out of the sky, leaving Clint desperate for air. Then, without warning, the man opened the door to the hearse and stepped out, closing it behind him with a conclusive slam. Clint could only stare to the space where the old military man was, chest heaving as oxygen suddenly started to fill his lungs. Sweat beaded at his head and he slowly sat up, looking into his passenger side mirror to see if he could observe where the man was headed, but by then, he was already gone.

In his peripheral, Clint saw the parking lights of the lead car in front of him turn off and he quickly composed himself before following it as the car began to move into the cemetery. Clint did all he could and talked it out. Instead of talking to himself, however, Clint seemed to begin a therapeutic conversation with his only remaining passenger.

"That was insane? Did that just happen?" Clint shouted, looking into the passenger mirror again. "That did not just happen." He shook his head, letting out a long breath. "That guy just got into the car and started talking about all of that stuff. That's insane. Absolutely crazy." Clint wiped at his forehead as the lead car took a slight right to a set of newer plots. Clint thought he could see the funeral site a short distance away. "And then he just got right out? Who does that? I can't believe that!" Still, in disbelief, the lead car arrived and Clint parked himself right behind it.

The family members filtered out of the cars one by one, filling the seats of an area beneath a large lawn canopy. Clint watched intently as people arranged themselves in the seating area, looking for the individual who'd shared the morbid story with him. As Clint watched, many men in uniform exited the vehicles, but none of them appeared to be the man that spoke to him. Clint looked through the rear view again to see if anyone else was coming, but it seemed that the majority of the group, if not all of them, were already out and seated. Clint sat back in his seat, expecting only at this point that he had missed the individual while looking for him. It seemed plausible, with so many other old men in the same uniform. He took a deep breath, releasing it in a burst of shock as the hatch behind him shot open.

Clint jumped in a near scream and looked back behind him. Three middle-aged men and a young teenage boy stood in the midst of the casket, all inspired to look toward Clint with a bit of surprise at his reaction.

The teenager, the one that would be less inhibited, asked aloud, "Everything alright, Mister?" And he quirked a brow to accompany the question.

Once Clint's shaken heart settled, he nodded furiously. "Y-Yes. I'm fine. Here to take it?"

The group looked between each other. They nodded and one of them asked. "You know how to unlock it?"

Clint thought quickly over what he was taught about it. The pins. He opened the driver's side door and went around to the back. He slipped within the group and released the pins that kept the whole thing situated. A moment later, with absolute delicacy, the group gripped the sturdy bars on the side of the casket and hoisted it out of the hearse.

Clint admired the large American flag that draped over the casket. While not superstitious (though today had rattled him some), Clint was a proud American, respectful of the sacrifices made for his freedom. He didn't know anything about World War II other than what he'd been taught in school. Clint didn't think about the individual stories or the impact that it made on people at a personal level. Everything was taught in a generic survey, broad and ideological, influenced and cliché. It was about then that the story the man shared with him in the hearse a few minutes prior began to sink in.

Clint leaned back against the side of his car, watching as the casket was carried toward the funeral site and eventually placed on a large stand. Clint thought about what the man had said. The screams of his "friends and brothers." The "blood-stained ocean." The Germans and their torpedoes. The absolute fear something like that might have encouraged. Clint realized only then that he'd never thought about the wars from history class quite like that. He'd always thought of warring nations, political heads and speeches, great battles both won and lost... but never of the people in them, making each bit of it happen. None of the defining moments in any war happened without the individuals sacrificing themselves to ensure it was even possible. People that pressed on after losing friends. People that could keep their head up or maintain some semblance of morale against the odds. As the preacher began the funeral ceremony, Clint looked back up to the site and the backs of the heads of what might have been a hundred or so people. It was about then that Clint recognized the man he'd seen before. The man, however, was not seated like the others.

Clint took a few careful steps forward on the hallowed ground, narrowing his eyes on the picture placed aside the casket. The stand was certainly the same as the one he'd seen in the funeral home, absent of a picture before, but now it rested adorned with the image of a proud military man, ribbons and awards to his shoulder, bearing of an officer's insignia and the same, white cold eyes of the man he'd seen before. The look was unmistakable. The look was that of a man that had seen "hell on earth." The man in the picture was the man that came to see him, or some terribly accurate form of an identical twin. The rank, prestige and the look made anything other than the man in the photo being him seem almost impossible, and certainly highly improbable. But, as Clint's mind dove into dark regress, there was no explanation for a dead man entering his car, sharing a story with him, and leaving immediately either.

Clint moved a few steps closer, hoping that the image would morph from the obscurity suggested by his mind to a clarity demanded only by his eyes. Instead, his eyes and mind were made to agree with the closing of the distance between himself and the unmistakable photograph of the military man. With that, Clint turned around and got back into his hearse, which was now the place of both perpetration and safety. Muddled up and confused, Clint's head fell to the steering wheel and stayed there as his mind made every effort to reason out superstition, ridiculousness and accept, truly, the impossibility of what he'd considered: The man he carried in the casket was the same man that sat beside him, upright, in the passenger seat of the hearse. Unable to believe that such a thing could happen and after some time to allow his nerves to settle, he thought that there must have been an explanation, however unusual it might have been. It was the only reason. For the sake of his sanity, it was all that he would accept.

In time, dust and flowers, the earth and its fruit, laid quiet and dead upon the casket. People began to leave the area and soon enough the funeral ceremony was over. The man was the earth's now, to have done with him whatever it willed. Clint returned to the funeral home when the time came and met with Marie in her office, as he was instructed to do when the funeral was completed.

A light knock and Clint stepped into Marie's office. "I'm finished, Marie."

Marie looked up from her paperwork with a broad smile. "Oh, good! Well, how was it? Not as bad as you thought, right?"

Clint didn't quite know how to answer the question. The procession and the funeral ceremony went well. Not everything went as planned. Without offering much information, Clint asked, "The man that died. Did he have... a brother? A twin, maybe?" Clint hoped Marie would be able to settle the dispute.

Marie thought about it for a moment. She shrugged. "Well, I don't know for sure, Clint. I met with his family. None of them appeared to be a twin of his. That's an interesting question. Why do you ask?" Marie sorted the papers in her hand into a single stack, holding them upright as she waited for his answer.

"There... I met someone there that looked just like him. I was just curious." Clint said a bit sheepishly this time. He understood that he might have been coming off a little odd and the last thing he wanted to do was get his new employer thinking that he wasn't all there.

Marie laughed, setting the paperwork off to the side. "Clint. It was a military funeral. You're going to see your share of these. They all wear the same uniform. I can't tell you how many times I'd confused one of them with another one. It's alright. Listen, all you need to do is focus on the transport and the procession, alright? Don't bother yourself with anything else. People may want to come and talk to you, but you're not expected to do anything other than what we've outlined, alright?" Marie continued with what appeared to be her normal, reassuring tone.

Clint debated the idea for a moment again in his mind and resolved to a quick, affirming nod. "Alright. Yeah, it was interesting. Thanks for the opportunity, Marie." And he stepped back, preparing to leave.

Marie called out with a wave of her hand to catch his attention. "Clint! You're forgetting something." And she lifted an envelope with his name on it.

Clint walked back in and accepted the envelope, donning a perplexed look upon his face. "What's this?"

"Your payment! You did well. I'm sure you'll be happy with it. So, two days from now we'll need you again. This one won't be a military affair, so things will likely be a little less tense." And she sat and smiled his way.

Clint looked down to the envelope, then back to her. Despite being a little spooked, the paycheck in hand, especially one given right after the job, enticed him. "Thanks. I'll be here." And he smiled in return before turning and stepping out the door of the office.

That night Clint and Kaylie met at the library, as they often did. Each one perused the internet, though Kaylie was much more interested in what it had to offer than Clint was. Clint, despite the mindless navigation through the electronic madness, was especially thoughtful concerning what had happened during the funeral procession. It was Kaylie that would finally strike up the conversation concerning it. It was odd to Clint that she had waited even that long to talk about his new job.

"So?" She asked, ambiguously.

Clint looked her way for a moment, then back to the screen. His eyes finally focused on the page in front of him. Nutritional information on a McDonald's Big Mac. "You know a Big Mac has 590 calories?" He shot back, knowing it wasn't what she was asking.

"Wonderful." She responded, both unamused and sarcastic. "How did today go? You're still alive. I guess that means the guy you were transporting around wasn't a brain-eating zombie." And she chuckled to that, swinging the mouse off to the right on the desk.

Clint thought about what she said. He agreed. He was happy, at least, he wasn't transporting a brain-eating zombie. But, what exactly happened still was a mystery to him and it was a troubling one. He was quiet.

Kaylie stopped with the browsing and turned to face him, showing an ounce of concern. "Is everything alright?" Unsure about what she had said now.

Clint nodded. "Yeah." Trying to seem composed. "Yeah, it was alright."

Kaylie cocked her head slightly to the side. "It was alright? Is that it?" Persistently.

Clint began to look a bit annoyed. "I don't know what you want me to tell you. It was nothing glamorous. I put a dead body in my car, drove it to a funeral and dropped it off."

Kaylie nodded slowly, her eyes wide with curiosity. It was obvious to her, having been a friend of Clint's for so long, that there was more to the story than he was letting on. So, despite his annoyance and for the taming of her curiosity, she continued to push.

"Did you have to talk with anyone?" Which she would have thought would have been the most nerve-racking possibility. And, with her guess, she had managed to draw a look from Clint so condemning that now, regardless of what had happened, the tale would be shared, and in the vivid detail Kaylie often pursued.

"Well..." Clint delayed. He thought of how to say it without sounding ridiculous. "I was pulling into the cemetery with the body loaded in the back."

To the "body in the back" statement, Kaylie shuddered, already creeped out by the idea of having to do such a thing. At the same time, as people often were, she was fascinated by the idea, too.

Clint continued. "Some guy just got into the car while I was waiting for the lead car to get directions, or confirmation or whatever." He sighed, looking away, saying in almost a whisper. "Some old military officer. A crazy son of a bitch, too." And the craziness of the man was subjective. The way in which the meeting came on seemed "crazy" to Clint, but the story was more tragic than it was crazy.

Kaylie leaned toward Clint, being sucked in. "He just got right into the car?" The speed of her speech increased. "What did he say? Why was he crazy? Did you say anything back? Why did he get into your car?" The question came one after another, like the rapid fire of a machine gun, blasting holes through Clint's weak comprehension of the event.

Clint lifted a hand, hoping to stop her. It did. He answered the way he cared to. "He got right into the car. It wasn't part of the plan, I don't think. He just started talking about an old war tale of his. A terrible war tale, with blood and dismembered body parts and... I don't know, it was nuts." And that, he believed, it absolutely was.

Kaylie put a hand to her chest and leaned back in her chair, in mild disbelief.

"And... why did he do that?" The only question she was able to muster in the second round.

Clint shook his head, watching her again. He spun his chair toward her and brought his hands together, allowing them to hang between his legs.

"I don't know. I thought maybe he was senile. Maybe someone had lost him. I didn't have any time to ask questions." Nor did he have the nerve, he thought. "When he finished talking, he stepped right back out and left. That was it. He said what he said and then left. Nothing more to it. Things went on... normally from there." As normal as he thought the situation could be, at least.

Kaylie's mouth hung open, then curled into a wide smile. "That is crazy!" She shouted, slapping his knee. Kaylie seemed absolutely entertained and it struck Clint as a bit weird.

"Weren't you talking about how terrible all of this seemed not that long ago? It's a little unusual that you're so damn interested in it all now." Clint couldn't help but criticize her response.

Kaylie laughed and shrugged. "Well, I would never do all of that myself. But, considering that you did it, and have such a crazy story to tell... well, I have to appreciate that a little bit. How crazy." Crazy, it seemed, was the word of the day. Clint thought it very suiting.

The two didn't talk much more about the event. Clint would never share the tinge of feeling within him that spoke unsettling things, things like "it was a ghost" or "it was the walking dead." Clint didn't want to say that his first experience working with the funeral home company was terrifying and that he didn't want to do it anymore. Then, the pay was good. His reason fought so incessantly against the possibility of the supernatural that the only thing he could do is remain. After all, it was reason that told him not to worry, because it was unreasonable that such a thing would happen again. So would be determined a few days later, when Clint arrived for his second job.

In the funeral home, Clint found himself more perceptive than he had been the first time. When he looked at the crosses adorning the walls, he considered the meaning they may have had to the people that walked the candle-lit halls, on a march to meet those recently lost. With the staring eyes of each painted picture of Jesus, the Christian savior, Clint stared back, hoping to see something. As usual, he didn't see love or passion, insight or wisdom; indifference is what he saw. Indifference may have been the very thing Clint needed to carry on with the day's task.

Clint gave a quick rap to the door of Marie's office and spoke up. "I'm here. Car's waxed and polished. You can take a look at it if you want."

Marie looked up from some paperwork and shook her head. "No, no. I'm sure you did just fine, Clint, thank you." And she gave Clint a bright smile. "So, I'm guessing you're ready to meet today's client?'

The suggestion made Clint wince. He was displeased with the thought of referring to a dead person, waiting (if one did such a thing) to be carted off, as a "client." By no means was the dead person the client, Clint thought. The client was the family. This analysis was kept to Clint's mind and he simply nodded, though he was certain his face and silence expressed the negative.

Marie, uncaring or preoccupied, stood and moved on past Clint with the keys to the viewing parlor in hand. Clint followed. He eyed Jesus again. Jesus eyed back. The second battle of the Mexican standoff came and passed. Eventually Clint and Marie made it to the parlor.

As there were before, candles lit the room, though the majority of them were out. A dim dome light near the entrance into the room gave a hint of illumination to the dark room and stabilized the flickering he'd experienced before. The demons were gone, Clint thought, and was consumed by the thought until snapped away from it with the final, halting click of Marie's heel before the grey casket.

Marie gestured to the picture of an old woman. The woman was exactly the visage of the typical elderly woman, with many generic qualities. Her hair was short and was a desperate mix of silver, grey and black; the black an homage to the societal model hungry for youth and rebellious against age. Clint new the elderly to be rebellious to little more than their own creeping mortality, despite, though a stereotype he understood, the majority of them were more religious than the youthful. The hairstyle itself wasn't youthful. No, instead she displayed the image of a person, like many her age that were interested in rekindling their youth, not the model of youth present. The large, auburn-tinted glasses dated the time exactly when she may have decided to stop moving forward with style and fossilize eternally right where she was. Her lips with thin, but very red with lipstick, a boldness Clint had only seen in women most recently. Her eyes were small and brown, with hanging eyelids that left the only contrasting white in the photo at a string of beads around her neck. She wore a church-going sort of blue dress. She was just an old woman, which was settling to Clint.

"Her name is Maggie. Maggie Wilcox. She was a dear old lady and the community here cared for her very much. You can expect there will be a lot of friends there at the funeral." And Marie's affections as she spoke, dripping from each word thickly, brought Clint to assume that Marie knew the woman personally at some point.

"Alright. I'll make sure everything goes as planned. Follow the lead car." Clint said with a half-smile, sticking to what he knew and nothing more.

Marie nodded quickly and stepped hastily past Clint. A sharp sniff suggested she may have been crying, but before Clint could think any further of the peculiarity of it all, Larry and Morton came in, Larry with what was becoming a trademark, a tuna fish sandwich, and Morton with his hulking size and uncomfortable silence.

With his mouth full, Larry pointed off toward Marie and spoke aloud, casting fish particles out of his mouth as men would have cast nets to catch the now minced and chewed thing. "What's with her?" Either the eating while saying so or his general demeanor made the question lack much true compassion.

Clint shrugged, truly unsure, but likely more concerned than Larry was. "I think maybe she knew the lady." Clint looked back to the picture, joining a second staring match. He muttered, "Maggie."

"Right." Larry said, glancing up to Morton, who didn't bother to look back. "Well, we got work t' do kid, so maybe you should get your effects in order." Said like a true man of the business.

"My effects?" Clint replied quizzically.

Larry moved past him and Morton went along the same. Larry shoved half of the tuna fish sandwich into his mouth, using it as a placeholder while he prepared to lift one side of the coffin. He shook his head, watching Morton, but speaking to Clint. All that came out was a muffled puzzle of words, but it was easy to identify that they were said in a condescending manner. "Shrm tyrm krd, er shwer yer er brggr sterf thrn thr durd whr durg ottr er..." And Larry nodded to Morton. "Wrn. Tr. Thrur." And they lifted the casket, moving it over to a small dolly a short distance away. Larry pulled the sandwich from his mouth after the casket was secured and he saluted Clint with it before shuttling the casket toward the hearse.

Clint sighed, looking back to the picture one last time. He spoke softly toward it. "Don't think about coming to talk to me." A gentle instruction and a serious hope.

The procession brought Clint to the gates, as he'd been before. He waited, anxiously for things to move on, looking in his side and rearview mirrors. He was waiting for anything that might have mysteriously opened his door and sat beside him. This time, at least, he would be prepared. Though, nothing came and the procession continued on through the cemetery to the funeral site. Loads of well dressed, mostly elderly people emerged from the parked limousines and ushered toward the tent for the day's event. A few strong men came and retrieved the casket and it was gone. Clint took a deep breath, leaned back on the cool leather and closed his eyes. He made it. Or, so he thought.

"You'd think that slut Gertrude McCarthy would have a little more tact when coming to a funeral! Instead, she takes an opportunity to flaunt her plastic additives to all the old horn-dogs, most of them doomed to drool all over themselves already, much less be inspired to make things any worse!" The elderly, female voice echoed in the previously silent place.

Clint nearly jumped out of his skin. There wasn't an opening of the door, or an image in the mirror. There was suddenly a woman. It wasn't any woman in the passenger seat, either. It was Maggie Wilcox.

Clint's hand shot to the small metal bar that was the door handle and pulled relentlessly, but the door didn't bother to submit and fly open. He shoved and prodded the automatic unlock switch, but no motor could be heard signaling his release. Already, sweat beaded down Clint's face. He yelled, "What do you want from me?" and covered his face with his hands, palms toward her in a defensive pose.

"Oh, calm down, child. I don't want a damn thing from you at all. I just don't want to be out there with all them stuffy fools. I ain't the type to attend funerals. Never have been, never will be." Maggie said loftily. "But, as life goes, or death for that matter, it seems I don't have much of a choice in attending my own, do I?" And she looked back Clint's way, who still sat defensively, as if waiting for an inevitable strike.

Clint's heart beat wildly. The woman didn't sound or look threatening. She wasn't the horrific image portrayed in horror movies. There was no skin hanging from her face and no eyes bulging from their sockets. Maggie appeared very much as she did in the photo Clint had seen in the parlor at the funeral home; dreadfully normal. However, it was that which wasn't normal was what paralyzed Clint into his protective position. This woman was supposed to be dead, yet there she was, sitting in the passenger seat.

A small, stuttering voice, leagues less confident than Maggie's snuck timidly from Clint. "W-Why are you here? Y-You're dead, right? How?" Clint's hands slowly lowered to examine the elderly woman not far from him.

"How?" She laughed, rolling her head back. "Your guess is as good as mine. But I'll tell you, there's something about this vehicle that feels... right." And her shoulders lifted before she took in a deep breath and let it out a second later, resolving to a comforted smile.

Clint glanced to the dash of the hearse, then to the seats. It was just an old hearse. The very essence of the vehicle's purpose undermined, in Clint's opinion, any chance of it being "comfortable." Then, to the dead, maybe it was something different entirely.

Clint cast out desperately, "I don't believe in ghosts. You're not real."

Maggie laughed again, reaching a hand across to his knee to give him a gentle pat, a pat that he felt as real as any other touch Clint had been privy to. "We call those that ignore the truth before them 'fools,' child." With a gentle lean toward him, her eyes lurching a skeptical gaze over those tinted glasses. Her tone and look were both calm and motherly.

Clint slid up, pressing his back to the driver's side door that wouldn't open. "If you won't answer how, then answer why? Why show yourself to me?" Less threatened and becoming more curious, Clint waited for the answer.

"Didn't I tell you, boy? This place is comforting. Makes the spirit feel right. Probably the last ride I'll ever take." Maggie's voice fluttered, stricken with the first sign of pain she'd expressed since her odd and unexpected arrival.

Clint cocked his head, feeling suddenly bad for her. "You have somewhere you have to go?" Questions came. Important questions, the ones that Clint hadn't thought to ask before because they never needed to be. He just didn't believe and when you don't believe, you don't ask questions about supernatural. Instead, you refute the supernatural. But, if this was what Clint thought it must have been, there were questions.

"I feel like I have somewhere to be. You ever got yourself dressed, grabbed your keys, walked to the door and stood in the doorway just wonderin' where it was you were about to go?" She asked, her voice returning to its sweet, age-afflicted tone. "Oh, you ain't ever dealt with that, as young as you are."

Clint smiled, shaking his head. "No. No, that's happened to me more than once."

"Well, I guess dying is a little like that. It's like standing in the doorway with your keys in your hand. You know you have somewhere to be, but until your mind's kind enough to let you in on the secret, you're just standin' in the doorway." And her smile grew, thin, red lips glowing as the sun began to fall on the Western horizon.

"There's no light? No heaven?" Questions.

"Well, unless you're God and that sobbin' assembly over there is a band of trumpetin' angels, I'm gonna assume I haven't made it or there isn't one. However..." Maggie leaned toward the window of the passenger side door, extended a finger and tapped on the glass with a well-manicured acrylic nail. "...Gertrude McCarthy ain't no angel." And she peeked over her shoulder at him, with a sort of youthful glance that exposed a playful child inside. "And this hearse ain't no gilded carriage carryin' me down golden streets, either." And she winked to Clint.

Clint laughed. He was fascinated. No longer afraid, he enjoyed the presence of the woman, or ghost, or apparition, or whatever she might have been; she was pleasant.

Clint and Maggie shared a pleasant conversation. Clint asked a great deal more questions and Maggie replied with a hint of mystery, occasionally confusing, but mostly with sweet sincerity and playfulness. She was a great woman, Clint thought.

"You're working for her now, right? That one there? Marie?" And Maggie tapped on the window again, pointing out Marie as she rose with the others at the conclusion of the funeral ceremony.

"She's the manager of the funeral home. She contracts me. Do you know her?" Clint thought about Marie's reaction earlier in the parlor.

"We're dear old friends, Clint. She's a good woman. You'd do well to take care of her." Maggie added, looking back to Clint who was still watching the woeful Marie move back toward limousine she arrived in.

Clint nodded. "Well, I do what I need to for her." Simply.

Maggie smiled, patting his hands again. Clint's hands were out on his lap now rather than shielding his face. "That's all I could ask. I should get goin'. I'm sure I have somewhere to be." And Maggie's hand rested on the door handle. Clint heard the motor pop and unlock of the doors, only now he hadn't a will to open them and run.

Maggie opened the door. "Maybe I can rest in peace now that that Gertrude's never gonna be seen again." Maggie stepped out of the hearse and closed the door behind her. She walked out toward the funeral ceremony, apparently unseen by the others that arrived in the procession and eventually vanished as she stepped behind a large, shaded tree near the funeral tent.

As Clint watched her vanish, he muttered an unconscious "goodbye" in her direction. If the fabric of reality could be unwound to manifest something like her, he believed she just might have heard him, even at a whisper. Immediately Clint reached for his cellphone and called Kaylie. She didn't answer, but he practically screamed into her voicemail.

"Kaylie, you need to meet me like right now at the library. I'm driving straight there. I'll see you in a minute. You're not going to believe this. I don't believe this! Okay, see you in a minute." And he hung up. Off he went, suit and all, toward the library to await her arrival.

Clint waited for what seemed like forever. Eventually, Kaylie arrived with a bag a cheese puffs in hand, pajama-clad at her legs and adorned in an oversized white undershirt. The circumstances which had Clint at the library in his suit and tie and Kaylie there thoroughly prepped for bed created a weird contrast between the two.

Kaylie, finishing off one the little puffs, one so disturbingly artificial looking, asked jokingly. "Was this supposed to be a formal event?" And she looked down over herself. Kaylie, still, was a pretty girl. She wasn't pretty in the way many women were, with an intense amount of effort to make sure everything was in place, matching and organized. She was pretty with a sort of natural, careless way. She rarely dressed up and when she did, she lost some of that to an invading (artificial) awkwardness.

Clint was sitting on a small sofa arranged for reading and he pat the seat next to him, signaling for her to sit. "You're not going to believe this! I don't think I believe this." The second statement was for himself.

Kaylie smirked, shrugged indifferently then sat next to him. Kaylie was always good for a bit of drama and gossip, but her mood seemed clouded. "What am I not going to believe? Why are you dressed like that?"

Clint waved his hand, as if to tell her to never mind his attire. "So, alright..." He paused, eyes raising to the ceiling as he thought logically of where to begin the absolutely illogical experience. "...so, today I had this woman that died." He started.

Kaylie's eyes shot wide. "A woman died?" She shouted.

Clint shook his head, interjecting quickly to douse the growing fire. "No, no. She was already dead, Kaylie. I was transporting her for the funeral. You know?"

Kaylie nodded, settling down a little. To her, that was less exciting. Still, like an interested observer at a movie theater, with cheese puffs popping into her mouth instead of popcorn, she listened.

"Well, remember yesterday how I told you about the crazy military man? The guy that was talking about the story, that just got into my car? How he just looked like the same guy that I actually transported in the coffin? Well..." And he took a deep breath. "I think it was the guy in the coffin, Kaylie. But... like, a ghost of him! Because the same thing happened today, with the lady. Her name was Maggie Wilcox and she was in my car, talking to me, today!" It all came out in a long-winded ramble and Kaylie just listened, stunned and silent.

After a short while, even with the nonverbal cues from Clint for Kaylie to respond, nothing was said. He finally chose to just ask. "Well?" Hopelessly.

Kaylie, just a second later, burst into laughter, slapping Clint on his arm with her cheesy fingers, leaving a powdery residue on his dark suit. "Oh, you had me going to there for a minute, Clint! Seriously." As she started to calm down. "What's going on? You didn't call me out here to mess with me, did you? I had a great movie playing, but it was hard to enjoy after hearing you all frantic on the phone." And her brows knit. She would be upset if he was messing with her.

Clint shook his head, taking her hand. He stared her in the eye and spoke slow and clear. The gesture itself was unlike Clint and he thought that it might contribute to his more serious tone. "Kaylie. Listen to me. The dead are appearing in my hearse. I don't know how. I don't know why. But, they're coming to me. They're talking to me and they're sharing their messages. You know me, I wouldn't just make this stuff up. You may not believe me, but I'm telling you, I know what I saw and this is the real thing." And he let out a long breath, continuing to stare.

Kaylie's eyes drifted down to his hand on hers and then back to his eyes. "Clint, you're scaring me a little. Are you saying—" and she shook her head, questioning look about her face, unable to accept the revelation at face value.

Clint nodded with a final bit of affirmation. "Yes. Yes."

Kaylie's hand pulled back from his and went over her mouth. "There are ghosts?!" And she asked the question again, hushing herself as she drew the attention of the late-night library goers. "There are ghosts?" While leaning in.

Clint nodded again. "I've met two of them. The two people whose bodies I've had to transport. They've literally sat in the car with me and spoke. This one today, this Maggie Wilcox? We had a conversation. You know I wouldn't make this up." Clint repeated.

Kaylie was completely aghast. She thought about what he was saying for some time, her eyes staring into his, as if waiting still for him to burst out and say that this was all a big joke. That time didn't come. Clint's franticness, the sincerity of the look in his eyes and the clarity of his disclosure all provided evidence that pointed to Clint being truthful. Kaylie shook her head quickly and brought her hand to his again, speaking with absolution.

"Clint, you need to quit. You need to quit right now. Quit the job, sell the hearse and find something else to do." Kaylie's eyes were wide with caution as she gave her suggestion.

Clint shook his head and answered with little thought. "No, I can't do that."

Kaylie nearly squealed in protest. "You can't?! You literally just began the job. You're telling me you can't find something else to do? We can work on it together, you and I. Anything other than this!" She plead.

Clint brought his hand on top of hers, reassuringly. He looked her in the eye with confidence. "Kaylie, listen to me. Everything is fine! I'm fine! Don't you think that if I thought this was dangerous, I would quit? Of course I would! But that's the thing—it wasn't dangerous. It was actually..." And he paused, trying to find the word. "...fascinating." His look was less confident and more puzzled.

"You don't understand Clint." Kaylie's heart was racing. She had never experienced the presence of the paranormal herself, but she felt she'd read enough, always having been fascinated by the idea, that she was a sort of quasi-expert. As experts do, she presented her own counter-argument. "The spirits that remain in this world do so because something is wrong. They would have passed on otherwise. But they haven't, because something needs to be done. Did they say anything to you about a reason they were still here?"

Even after having experienced the apparitions firsthand, Clint still felt the conversation was migrating its way toward silliness. The experience he felt he had with Maggie, at least, felt so human and so real that the ideas proposed by Kaylie seemed an unlikely fit. "The military man just spoke of an experience. He seemed bothered, but he didn't say anything about why he came to me. He almost didn't even seem to know he was dead. Maybe that's why I didn't believe it at first. But Maggie knew. Maggie knew she was attending her own funeral. She even had things to say about it. The reason why she was still here, though... she wasn't sure. The only thing she said was that she 'felt like she had somewhere to be.'" And Clint shrugged.

Kaylie presented the opposite side of the spectrum. "I've read about lost spirits, the ones that have trouble finding their way. So, they remain in a wandering limbo here on the earth." With the utmost seriousness.

Clint shook his head and laughed. "Kaylie, where the hell did you hear all this crap?"

"Crap?! Clint, you saw dead people. They talked to you. You have to believe me! I know, maybe you had a pleasant experience with one of them. But what about when the experience they've had isn't good? What happens when they're angry or vengeful? What then? Do you think they're just going to want to sit down and have a conversation with you?"

Clint watched her quietly. It was obvious she was very concerned, but Clint simply didn't agree with her. "I just don't think anything like that could happen. They're ghosts, right? What could they do to hurt me?" And Clint's mind immediately triggered back to the locked doors of the hearse, the doors he couldn't open despite his effort. He thought back to Maggie's hand touching him. He recalled the realness of that touch. Slowly, Clint looked away, considering the possibility that Kaylie may have been right: the job could have been dangerous should the phenomena continue to happen, and should it happen with the wrong person.

"Clint. Please just consider what I've said? I know that it seems a little crazy, but if what you're telling me is true, you know you can't dismiss the possibility that I'm right. You know that." Kaylie's bottom lip protruded as one would naturally in an expression of concern, without any deliberate exaggeration.

Clint smiled and nodded, trying to lighten Kaylie's spirit. "I'll consider it, Kaylie. Let me see how this next job goes, alright? If it makes you feel any better, I haven't even been asked to do anything---" and Clint was cut off by the ringing of his phone. He looked down to the screen and the name "Marie" sat above an animated green arrow. "Let me take this, Kaylie. I'll be right back." And Clint rose, removing his hands from hers and stepped away to answer the phone.

"Hello?" Clint said.

"Clint. It's Marie. How are you doing?"

Clint glanced back to Kaylie who was now staring off into the distance, lost in thought.

"I'm doing alright. Something I can help you with?" Again, he thought of Maggie's suggestion to watch over Marie.

"There is something. Tomorrow morning, I need you to swing by the coroner's office off 8th Street. Larry and Morton will be there. We'll be doing a pick-up from that location." Marie said, distractedly. The normal shuffling of papers could be heard in the background.

Clint didn't respond immediately, a little caught off guard by the circumstances. He spoke a bit more softly, as to ensure Kaylie couldn't hear him. "Is there any reason why we're going directly to the coroner's office? There isn't going to be a viewing in the parlor or anything like that?"

Marie was silent for just a moment and the sounds of paper being fumbled about ceased. "Not everyone has someone that cares to see them, or is alive to, Clint. Sometimes this business is more about the transaction and less about the sentiment. This is just one of those cases. So, can I count on you?" She asked again. Her insistence suggested an odd urgency.

The corner of Clint's lips quirked nervously. He thought about it and about what Kaylie asked. This would be the determining ride. "Sure. What time?" Clint's voice didn't express the concern and burden elicited by Kaylie's warnings.

"Seven a.m. sharp." And back to work she went.

"Alright. I'll be there. Take care." Clint said, lowering the phone from his ear.

Clint turned and stepped back toward Kaylie. "How about we get out of here and we talk about it a little more tomorrow?" Trying to avoid what the conversation on the phone was about. He thought it was best to avoid bringing up his commitment until after it was done the following day.

Kaylie nodded and smiled a bit. Still, there was concern about her, but she tried to have faith that Clint would make the right decision and listen to her worries. They'd been friends long enough, she thought, and that he would consider her worries to be important. Clint walked Kaylie out to her car, suit aside bed wear and they went on their separate ways.

The world was shifted horizontally to match Clint's orientation as his morning alarm began to sound. The incessant nagging tone was thwarted with an aimless smack of his hand in its direction, most likely contacting the large "snooze" button instead of the "off." Never known to be a morning person, still, on this day, Clint seemed to drag even more heavily than most. He rose, making his way to the bathroom to stare at himself in the mirror. The fascination common to most people, of staring at themselves immediately after coming back to life took him for a short while. He looked like he expected the dead would look, which was surprisingly different from how they actually were. He showered, readied himself and eventually made his way to the coroner's as he was instructed for the unorthodox (if he could claim the job could be so) pick up of his newest "client."

Larry and Morton were already waiting, as if Clint had arrived late. Perhaps more odd about the strange rendezvous was that Larry didn't have a tuna fish sandwich hanging from his mouth. He seemed strangely normal, if not a little anxious. Clint parked and opened the driver's side door, stepping out to meet the men in what he hoped would be a short encounter.

"Decided to make it, eh?" Larry said, gesturing back toward the large door of the building behind him.

Clint shrugged. "I'm here. I was told to be here at seven. It's..." Clint looked down to his watch as the long hand hit twelve, denoting that it was exactly that time. "...seven." And he offered a passive smile.

Larry shook his head. "Marie had us here an hour early, like this was gonna be some sort o' big job or something. She must think we like hangin' around all o' these stiffs. Doesn't she know we have better things we could be doin'?" Larry said, irritated.

Clint thought for a moment about what it was Larry could possibly have to do that was important. Then, he didn't think on it long. Morton brought out the dolly with a casket atop it. The casket, however, was of a much lower quality than those he'd seen in his past two jobs. It was made mostly of wood, perhaps even some sort of composite by its frail look. The inadequate container made Clint quirk a brow in dissatisfaction. "Is that how they always come out of this place?" Referring to the coroner's.

Larry looked down to the box, then back to Clint. "What do you expect? A chariot o' gold? This man ain't got no family, no friends, no nothin'. And when you don't have anybody, kid... nobody cares what they cart you around in after you're dead. You're just dead and that's it. End of the story."

Larry and Morton, will less delicacy than normal, lifted the box from the dolly and moved around to the back of the hearse. They stood there for a minute before Larry shouted, "Hey! You just gonna stand there all day and play with yourself or are you gonna open the hatch?" His voice struggled with the weight.

Clint moved hastily then, opening the door for the two men, which quickly shoved the weak wooden box into the back of the hearse, locked it down and closed the door. Larry, breathing heavily now, walked past Clint and gave him a slap on the shoulder. "Have fun, kid." And they went on into the building, closing the large door behind them.

Clint looked into the shaded window of the hearse to observe the box. As he had felt before that disturbing medal atop the military man's casket was disrespectful to the dead, the ushering of the person inside of a casket of such poor quality seemed equally contemptible, if not much worse. Clint hoped that should he have an experience with whatever was in it, the entity wouldn't be upset about the conditions.

Clint reached into his pocket, retrieved his phone and dialed Marie. When she answered with a simple "hello" Clint began. "I've made the pickup." It sounded like a ridiculous espionage mission. "What now?" Marie informed Clint that he would be taking the body to site 4742A. She instructed that the funeral booth attendant would be able to get him going in the right direction. The booth reminded Clint of the short stops they made while entering the cemetery, where things first went awry. After receiving the directions, Clint got in the hearse, joined his passenger and drove to the cemetery with much less majesty than was normal with the motorcade.

When Clint arrived at the cemetery, a car sat in front of him at the booth causing him to have to wait for a short time behind it. Clint looked over his shoulder at the simple casket and spoke out in its direction, "Probably not how you expected things to go, huh?" And he turned away as the car in front of him pulled off. "Alone, with no one that cares. No one to miss you." It brought Clint to think about how lonely his life was, short of Kaylie. He didn't have much. He pulled up to the booth. An old woman smiled, lips red and bright. She reminded him of Maggie Wilcox.

"Hey there, dear! What can I do for you?" She asked.

Clint gestured back with a thumb to the casket. "Delivering this fellow to 4742A. Mind telling me how to get out that way?" And Clint said "fellow" unsure if it was in fact a man or a woman. Sadly, at this point, it was simply a box and nothing more. Clint thought maybe this was the beginning of the detachment he'd seen in Larry and Morton.

The woman smiled and offered him a map. She explained where he was, then circled the location he was going to with a large red marker. Clint smiled and accepted the map appreciatively, getting on his way. As he drove through the cemetery, Clint's anxiety kicked in. Nothing had happened, but the memories of what had, regardless of the mostly innocent encounters, incited fear which transpired in a nervous sweat at his forehead. Clint went around each bend carefully, keeping an eye on the map when he needed to, then to the road to be aware of pedestrians or other vehicles. The cemetery was much more quiet than normal, and that was probably because it was a weekday. No one had to be at a funeral. No one had to worry about a scheduling conflict with the burial of the deceased. Clint estimated he was close to the burial site. It was off to his left according to the map. His eyes narrowed a bit on the relative location then back to the map. He, again, called Marie.

"Marie. I'm here. Is someone supposed to be here to take the casket? Seems pretty qui—" And Clint looked back toward the gravesite, catching a glimpse of something he hadn't before. It brought him to push closer to the driver's side window while Marie spoke, saying something about "Larry and Morton should be there" but they weren't. Instead, there were three people in the relative location of the gravesite, a taller figure with two shorter ones; the two Clint suspected were children.

"Clint? Clint, are you there?" Marie called, seemingly at a distance as the phone was held away from Clint's ear and near his lap.

Clint called out, trying to get a better look. "Marie, I'll call you right back!" And he thumbed the screen of the phone until it hung up. Clint opened the door of the hearse and stepped out of the vehicle, cautiously stepping across the street in the direction of the three. He called out, still a bit too far out of view to make a clear image of them. "Hello? Are you here for someone?" They didn't look to him. Clint knew this was the right place, according to the map. He tried again. "Are you here for a funeral?" Clint hoped he wouldn't have managed himself into a terribly awkward situation. Instead, Clint managed himself into one that became suddenly and intensely terrifying.

The three looked up, simultaneously, as if a set of strings were attached to each of their heads, but all controlled by the hand of a single puppeteer. Clint eyes took a moment to take in their faces—or what was left of them. A woman, with curly black hair stared with haunting white eyes while the lower section of her face, where her mouth and nose would have been, hung in a mangled mess of flesh and bloody tissue. The children, each of them, bore crimson pits in their chests, one of them able to be seen completely through to the dirt fields behind them. Their eyes were dead and cold like the woman's, so bleak and torn that their innocence could not fight through their harrowing observance. Clint yelled and ran back to his hearse, "Holy shit! Holy shit!" He screamed, tugging rapidly on the door handle until it opened. He sat into the driver's seat and quickly reached for the ignition and key. There was nothing. It was then that he felt the cold metal press against the side of his head.

"Hey, sweetheart. Going somewhere?" The voice was not the gentle, inviting tone he'd felt with the woman at the cemetery booth. It was the blood-curdling, guttural male tone. Clint's eyes shifted in a panic to his right, toward the passenger's seat, though he didn't dare move his body. In his peripheral, he followed the long barrel of the device pressed against his head to the wooden stock of what he recognized what a large shotgun. Immediately, Clint began to cry. "No, no, no... No, please, this is a mistake! I'm just here to bring this casket to the cemetery! I don't know anything, I promise, I don't know anything! Don't do this!" As he receded into a babbling, begging mess unavoidable of most people ever put into a position of helplessness with the added potential of losing one's life.

"Shut your fucking mouth!" The man screamed, pressing the gun toward him so fiercely that it guided Clint's head against the driver's side window, slamming it against the glass before the barrel dug into his temple. "Look out there. It's a pretty fucking picture, isn't it?" The man said, laughing. "Model family!" And his laughing erupted, causing the cold metal to quiver in a counter to Clint's uncontrollable shaking.

Clint's eyes drifted back to the family that continued to watch as the event took place. The woman huddled the two children protectively against her body and shook her mangled head as chunks of shattered flesh swung where her chin once sat, much like a grisly pendulum. Clint's breath beat against the window, fogging it, then clearing as he breathed it back in, moving into a mild hyperventilation.

The familiar sound of Clint's ringer went off between his legs, where Clint had left his phone upon exiting the car initially. The barrel was pulled from Clint's temple, and the gun was maneuvered in a way that the buttstock sat at the floorboard, behind the pedals of the hearse, with gun barrel pointed vertically in Clint's direction. With a quick grasp of Clint's hair which drew a painful scream, the man shoved the underside of Clint's chin, the fleshy, pliable region at the peak of the neck, against the barrel, holding him there.

The man instructed. "Answer the phone."

Clint shook his head, tears streaming down his face as he struggled to breathe.

"Answer the phone!" The man repeated. The man held Clint against the barrel so firmly that Clint could hardly move. Trying to take control of the gun may have resulted in a terrible end. Clint did all he could. He lifted the phone with one hand and answered it, sobbing. "H-Hello?" Clint muttered brokenly into the phone.

"Clint? It's Kaylie. Where are you?" She asked, completely unaware of the horror that was transpiring.

Clint looked to the man, getting his first clear look at him. His neck was slit and blood ran freshly from the wound, as though it had happened only moments ago. His eyes were evil and enraged. The top of his head was bald, but thin, grey hair hung in a horseshoe pattern toward his shoulders. The man's dreadful image caused another gasping utterance from Clint that brought Kaylie to ask, more alarmed.

"Clint?!" She said. "Clint, are you alright? What's going on?" She became more insistent.

"Say goodbye." The man instructed.

Clint shook his head, pleading. "Please don't. Please don't do this." His voice torn by the streaming of tears.

"Clint! Clint! Where are you?! Are you with someone else?" Kaylie remained persistent. "Are you in trouble? Please, talk to me!" Her voice littered suddenly with tears itself.

"K-Kaylie. I..." And he was cut off.

"Put your finger on the trigger." The man instructed, dark, bloodshot eyes burning into Clint.

Clint slowly shook his head, feeling the grinding metal against his skin.

"Put... your finger... on the trigger... or I'll kill your little friend after I'm done with you." The man sneered, nearing himself closer to Clint, allowing Clint to feel the threatening puffs of rancid, alcohol-imbibed breath.

Clint cried. "Please don't do this!"

"Clint! Please tell me where you are! I'm calling the police! I'm calling the police right now! I'll call you right back, Clint!" Kaylie shouted, static ensuing on the line before the phone's screen turned red, denoting the call ended. Clint's finger went to the trigger of the shotgun.

"How does that power feel, huh? Feel strong, big boy? Feel like you finally have something between your legs that'll make that pretty little tramp proud of you?" The man spoke, words spewing like venom.

Clint, however, was beyond words. He bordered on unconsciousness, unable to take the immense stress that overcame him, unable to succumb to the terrible demands of the monster that appeared beside him. He merely sobbed, helplessly.

"Pull the trigger." The man instructed.

Clint's consciousness returned suddenly. "No. No! No!" He shouted, his head struggling to lift from the gun, but the man held him firmly. His finger pulled from the trigger, only to make way for the man's own. As the man took control of the weapon's trigger, Clint halted his protest.

"You should have listened." The man said.

Clint's eyes shot wide open. "No!"

The gun blasted a single shot, killing Clint instantly.

Larry and Morton arrived a short while later and stepped casually from their truck. Larry gestured to Morton with his tuna fish sandwich in hand, waving it as he usually did in his moments of professorship. "The kid can handle it. We're movin' a murderer, not the damn Pope." And Larry laughed until he saw the agonized face of his giant accomplice, who'd managed to see the grisly scene before Larry did. Larry's eyes turned to the hearse to see the windows tinted with a shade of red, streaming down every transparent surface of the interior of the car. Only the silhouette of what was left of Clint remained inside, alone, but for the casket containing his final "client."

RETURN TO THE TABLE OF CONTENTS
A Penny Down the Well

"You think this is some sort of game, pussy? Do you remember what happened last time you didn't listen to me when I told you something?" Lloyd Barker barked as his name implied, somewhere branded indefinitely in the course of history to culminate to this moment, at this very time, with a balled fist held threateningly near Jacob Fidder.

Jacob stood helplessly beside Harold Grigg, or Harry for short, waiting for the punch to come. Behind the veil of squeezed eyelids, nothing came. When he peeked, the nightmare wasn't over. In fact, it was only beginning.

"Put the hair ties in your hair, you little faggot! Make 'em nice and pretty, like all the faggots like their little bitch boys!" Barker barked again with the mouth of a tempered sailor.

Harry, taller and lankier, with a general demeanor even more defenseless than that of Jacob, had already gone about putting the hair ties in his hair, as Barker instructed. Two different hair ties were used to create pigtails atop his head, like what was often seen on young girls. Sobbing and helpless as he was surrounded by Barker and his gang of eighth graders, Jacob carefully maneuvered the hair ties into his own hair, creating two embarrassing pigtails the same as his best friend had. The bullies began to laugh aloud, one of them snapping pictures of the two.

One of the boys from Barker's gang shouted, the one Jacob called "Crater" because his face was terribly ridden with acne. Of course, Jacob would never call him that to his face, unless he cared for a crater in his own head via a swift beating. "Oh, this is too good! Let me post this online, so you two lovebirds get all the attention you deserve!" And his laughing ensued.

Another one, probably the most intelligent of the group, but never enough so to keep the horrendous bullying from happening, was Bryan Chandelling, or "Brain" as Jacob and Harry had dubbed him. Brain spoke up, slapping Crater one good time to the arm. "Load it up on the other account, jackass, or they'll know who did this! I don't want to end up on Oprah."

The last of the vile quartet was Pete "Gassy" Gadson, his nickname given to him not by Jacob and Harry, but instead by the general public. The name represented a sort of twofold nature about Pete: One, that his flatulence was legendary, often unabated by concerns of embarrassment or worry in public and the stench that reeked from the exhausted bowels of the kid were a culmination so foul that children were known to have lost their lunch when trapped in his vicinity, something he often ensured with force. Second was that Gassy was a renowned pyromaniac. The extent of his damages from the public perspective resided in a gruesome burning of a neighborhood cat he'd managed to get his hands on. The truth, or from what Jacob had been told in the myriad of scare tactics used to keep him under control, was that Gassy was responsible for a house fire that happened two years prior, when they were all in the sixth grade. Gassy still smiled when the news came on during anniversaries, those that were designed to pay respect to the single mother and her daughter that were lost in the home. To Gassy, it seemed like a sickening homage to his success. He got away with it, if the tale was, in fact, true. Gassy stayed mostly out of the verbal exchange, striking up a match or two on the outskirts of the closed circle around Harry and Jacob.

Barker suddenly reached back toward Brain. "Did you get it?" He asked, impatiently.

"Yeah. Pink, too." Brain snorted.

Barker snatched the object away from Brain, revealing it was a jump rope, like those used in gym class. It was mostly white, except for the bright pink handles. "Time to have a little fun, faggots." And a dark grin came over Barker's face. "Get to movin'" And he shoved Jacob in the back, sending him toward the more open part of the school's quad, a social square for lunch breaks. Walking like prodded, helpless slaves, bound by fear instead of ropes, Harry and Jacob proceeded with the group to one of the smaller trees in the quad, the most open and obvious one to other students. Barker tied one end of the long jump rope to the narrow trunk of the tree and put the other end in Harry's hand.

"Time to play jump rope, like the little girls you two are, huh? Why don't you show the whole school what little faggots you are and play jump rope, huh?" The tagline "huh" was less of a question and more of a demand, a conclusory statement, like "there's no going back now unless you want to be beat to a bloody pulp or worse." Jacob had enough terrible beatings to know that there was no chance to stop what was happening. Without faculty intervention (or divine intervention, if such a thing existed), Jacob was doomed to do exactly what he was told. No great beam of light parted the clouds this time either and Harry stood staring at Jacob hopelessly as an audience of curious school children started looking their way, already beginning to giggle at the ridiculous pigtails at their heads. In dread, Jacob returned the look to Harry, as if administering a silent, "Let's get this over with." Harry began to swing the rope and Jacob jumped over it, occasionally getting tripped up. The school children closed in, beginning to laugh aloud. Jacob had finally stopped crying. He saved those tears for the realization that his day would be spoiled by the brats, not for the resolve of getting through whatever it was that would happen. The fortunate thing about all of the attention is that it wouldn't take long before a teacher or supervisor moved in and broke up the act. Until then, it continued.

Crater shoved at Barker's arm. "Hey, how 'bout we say that every time the shit bag trips, we punch him in the gut." And he laughed his high-pitched, nails-to-the-chalkboard laugh, bringing Jacob to cringe. He tripped again.

"Sounds like a good idea. Better jump a little better, faggot." Barker laughed himself.

Brain watched the events in silence, but donned his normal, amused smirk, while Gassy kept an eye out for any adults.

Jacob focused on Harry for a minute as he swung the jump rope around and around with a simple, rhythmic pattern. Harry was different from Jacob in that he seemed to just "disconnect" when these events came about. His eyes glazed over. He never cried, he just seemed to step out of his body and turn into a robot that did whatever it was programmed to do. Today the program was to swing the rope, humiliate yourself and your friend to prevent physical violence and having to explain bruises, bloodied noses and black eyes to his parents that always said they would do something, but never actually did. In the end, they were a lot like Harry. The kids continued to laugh, some of them recording the event with their phones, destined to send the act into cyberspace where it would undoubtedly travel virally from one person to the next. The video would land in the hands of objectors that would use it to push an otherwise pointless agenda from behind their desks to end bullying, without actually having to make any other personal contribution. It would go off to other kids that would make music videos out of it, dubbing in sounds and editing the footage. It would land in the hands of pedophiles that would love to get a look at an eighth grade boy with pigtails in his hair, jumping a rope. Jacob and Harry just hoped that it would end here and tomorrow would be another day with another program. The intervention eventually came in the form of Ms. Holly.

"Hey! What's going on here?" As the tall, slender woman made her way through the crowd of children. When she finally got to the center of the group, she brought a well-manicured hand quickly over her mouth. "Jacob! Harry! What are you two doing?" She asked, almost as if they were jumping rope in pigtails because they wanted to.

Harry stopped, looking over his shoulder to Ms. Holly. He stared at her from behind those large glasses he wore, not answering the question immediately. He looked toward the four boys, all of which were making their way from the group, toward the doors and towards the school's halls. Harry looked then to Jacob, hoping he'd provide a logical answer for the absurdity they'd been damned to carry out. Jacob sought for an answer; anything that didn't rat out the bullies. If he dared to do that, which he'd done before, he would have faced a wrath much worse than anything he'd normally experienced.

"We were..." Jacob began, with an obvious pause that denoted the immediate guilt of lying. "...just playing a new game."

Ms. Holly watched the two quietly in disbelief before challenging Jacob's suggestion. "You two put pigtails in your hair and decided to jump rope as a game?" And her question prompted additional laughter from the children, those that were quickly shooed off by Ms. Holly a second later.

"Yeah. We saw it on the internet." And Jacob knew that was the thing that would get him out of it. In a weird world where "planking," the "Harlem Shake" and other ridiculous pop-culture trends rose and vanished, the internet always was a decent scapegoat for the unexplainable.

Ms. Holly shook her head in puzzlement. "I just don't understand you kids these days. Take those out of your hair and get on to class. The bell's about to ring. Does that rope belong to the school?" And she looked it over.

Jacob didn't know. He just shrugged. Besides, it wasn't him that got it in the first place.

Ms. Holly gestured to the doors of the school building. "Get on. No more of this, you hear?" She said.

Jacob and Harry began their slow trudge toward the building, tugging the hair ties from their head. Harry looked back Ms. Holly's way and nodded before continuing his slow march beside Jacob.

"We should have done something." Jacob said, as he always said after it was all over with.

"Like what? Say something and get beat up?" Harry said, running his arm across his nose.

"I don't know! We can't keep taking this all the time, Harry! How long is it going to be before these guys do something really bad, huh? You think all of this is bad? This is nothing compared to what they can do. Harry, some people say Gassy actually killed some people! Killed them!" Jacob shouted as they neared the door. He shook his head in defeat as they arrived.

The two stopped in front of the door. Jacob looked back to Ms. Holly, who was still looking over the rope and the tree that it was tied to with skepticism. Eventually, Jacob's eyes settled on Harry, who still wore a tall spire of hair atop his head, one that formed with the hair ties they were forced to wear.

"Well?" Jacob asked.

"I just don't know what to do, Jake. If I knew, I would've done it." Harry sighed, pushing the door open. The second the door came open, hands flew from the opening, viciously snagging a hold of the two boys. They were slammed against the walls, Jacob left to face Brain, Harry in front of Gassy. Terror came over the eyes of the two, hoping the gang hadn't overheard their conversation.

Barker spoke up with a sickly grin. "How many times did he trip?

Crater replied. "Four." Toothy, satisfied smile at his face.

Barker nodded. "Well, two for you!" And as Brain held Jacob still, Barker slammed a clenched fist into Jacob's gut twice.

Harry's eyes went wide as he realized what was happening. Their attempts at going along with the humiliating act in the quad didn't save them from what was coming; it just delayed it. Barker stepped over toward Harry as Jacob doubled over when Brain let him go, allowing him to slide down the wall and to the floor, gasping for air.

Barker stopped in front of Harry. "Willing to take two for your girlfriend, Harry, or should we give him the other two?"

Harry began to move into his normal ritual, where he disconnected. Harry didn't give an answer.

"Answer me, fucktard, before I do it anyway! No objection means you're alright with him getting beat a little more, huh?" Barker grabbed Harry's chin, staring him in the eyes. "Don't care about your girlfriend, Harry?" Barker asked in a mock-sweet voice that didn't seem compassionate in the least, despite the pitiful act. Barker pat Harry's chin softly and gestured for Brain to lift Jacob up again. Still barely able to breath, Jacob was lifted and pushed against the wall again.

"Get this over with quick. We have to get out of here." Brain said, keeping with his normal level of awareness.

Barker nodded with a smile. "Oh, this won't take long." And he paused in front of Jacob. "Seems your boyfriend here isn't willing to take your shots. Ain't a very good friend you got, Jake. Well..." And Barker shrugged, almost as if he really had no choice in his own actions. He slammed another fist into Jacob's stomach, causing him to reel forward. The last words Jacob heard were "Night, night, buddy." And the last swing sailed violently into Jacob's head, bringing on the darkness of unconsciousness.

Jacob woke up in the school nurse's office. Harry sat a short distance away from him, in a waiting chair, his head hung low in shame. As Jacob's eyes adjusted to the bright, florescent light, the images of a few worried faces became clear. Jacob's mothers looked him over speculatively, trying to see all of the damage. A question was sent from his mother Irene, or "Ima" as Jake called her, reserving "Mom" for Madeline, equally concerned.

"So, another kid did this?" Ima asked.

The sound came through a distorted filter as consciousness flooded back into Jacob. The group looked down to him.

"Jacob! Jacob, baby, are you alright?" Madeline leaned down to him, kissing him softly on the forehead.

Then Ima, a moment later, "Did someone do this to you, Jake? Did someone hurt you?"

Jacob didn't reply immediately. He looked off toward Harry, who obviously hadn't said anything about the incident. It was "policy" for the two to keep the scuffles to themselves. There was a time when they brought the bullying up to the faculty and it managed to intensify the situation tenfold. Since then, the two reacted by maintaining the secret of their abuse in confidence.

Jacob shook his head. "No. I tripped." Short and without much detail. It allowed him to survey the potential questions better, without having to fabricate a difficult lie.

The nurse smirked, seeming to know better. She didn't say anything to interfere with Jacob's parent's questions.

"You fell on your eye?" Ima didn't seem very convinced. It wasn't the first time she'd seen Jacob in this state, but never did she have to come to the school to respond to a situation like this. "You need to tell me if someone did this to you, Jacob, so we can fix it."

Jacob's eyes welled with tears as he sat up suddenly, causing the small audience to take a step back in unison. "I told you I tripped!" He shouted, unwilling to fold.

Ima looked to Madeline. A long sigh left her. "Com'on, I'm taking you home." Ima put a hand to Jacob's shoulder as he hopped down from the small bed. As the three of them walked toward the door, Jacob looked toward Harry, who glanced up quickly to Jacob, then back to the ground.

Harry mumbled, "See ya, Jake."

Jacob didn't respond. He continued to watch Harry as he was ushered out of the door and to the car.

That evening, Ima and Madeline ensured Jacob was in attendance for dinner. Dinner began quiet, with the small group feeling one another out. Ima gave the occasional look to Madeline, unsure if she wanted to start the conversation or not. Eventually, Madeline, a bit more "motherly" in her general demeanor, spoke up. "Jacob, we really want to talk to you about what happened today. Do you understand how important this is?"

Jacob shuffled a bit of broccoli from one side of his plate to the other, like a hockey puck in an ice rink. He let out a long, begrudged sigh. He didn't answer. He knew the attempt at talking was coming.

Madeline turned her attention then to Ima, whom was a bit more firm. Ima nodded softly, as if understanding, nonverbally, that it was her turn to speak.

"Jacob, we're going to take care of this situation whether you tell us or not. I've already spoken with Principal Henderson and he says he knows what happened. Some kids were bullying you in the quad today, weren't they? He said he spoke with Ms. Holly. What were their names, Jake?" The quizzing continued, but Jacob continued to be reluctant. Instead of feeling good about their efforts to change things, Jacob felt concerned that they were probing at all, for fear that any effort to stop the kids (though he would have loved for them to stop) was going to infuriate them into more violent action.

"I don't want to talk about it." Jacob whispered.

"You don't have a choice, Jake." Ima returned quickly.

"I don't want to talk about it!" Jacob yelled, slamming his fork down onto his plate. Both Ima and Madeline shot back in their seats, surprised. Jacob prior to that moment had never acted so brashly. Jacob turned on his heel and stomped his way toward his room, abandoning the conflict but for a call out from the table.

"Jacob! We're not done!" Ima shouted desperately. It didn't make a difference. A second later, Jacob entered his room, slammed the door and ended the conversation forcefully.

Ima and Madeline made no further effort that evening to get through to Jacob. They decide the best thing they could do was try to resolve the issue through their own channels, unaware of the potential danger in doing just that. The communication block between Jacob and his mothers made it impossible to prevent the worst; the worst manifested itself a couple of days later.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Jacob asked, walking beside Harry. He'd lifted a small stone from the ground and sent it sailing off into the trees at their right. To their left, cars zoomed by on the highway.

Harry, still beating himself up over the incident, shrugged. "I-I'm sorry, Jake. I just froze. You know I didn't want him to hit you again! I would have taken the punches for you... but..." And he fell quiet.

"But? You didn't. And he knocked me out. And now my moms are on my case about 'who did it' and 'how they're going to get everything fixed' and stuff. We're in trouble, Harry. When they find out..." And large semi flew by the two, creating the passing vacuum that drew them toward the road.

"If they find out, huh?" A voice from behind them came through, horribly familiar.

Slowly, Harry and Jacob looked over their shoulder to find the source. The gang walked up beside them, three of them followed by a more distracted Gassy. Jacob swallowed hard, feeling the "fight or flight" instincts within himself kicking in.

Harry glanced to Jacob with a deep frown, knowing the situation wasn't good.

"Did you tell on us, ass hats?" Barker circled the two boys, the two of them completely paralyzed in fear, unsure of how much was heard. "Seems a little weird Henderson called us into his office for a chat. Seems, um..." And Barker leaned into the ear of Jacob. "...suspicious." And he rounded toward Harry. "Your dike moms aren't trying to save you from the 'big bad wolf,' are they?" And Barker sounded a prompt to laughter with his own, causing a stir in the rest of the gang. "Maybe... Gassy needs to pay them a little visit when they're sleepin' at night, huh?" A terrible threat.

"You stay away from them." Jacob said, with little confidence, but one of the few expressions of defiance against the intimidation.

"Or what?" Barker barked. "You gonna tell on me, faggot?" Standing between the highway and Harry.

"Or I'll kick your ass!" Harry shouted, suddenly, shoving Barker toward the road. A car came flying directly for him, only barely swerving out of the way to avoid hitting him. Honks of rage rang down the road as the car continued off. Harry didn't wait to see the result of almost having killed Barker with the sudden outburst, instead he shouted his own prompt: "Run!"

Jacob wasted no time, splitting from Harry and speeding into the thick forest of trees on the side of the highway, hoping he'd be able to lose the group if he was chased. Chances, of course, were slim.

The group, surprised and stunned by the response, stood puzzled and confused for a moment, waiting for Barker's orders before doing anything, which gave the boys some time to get on their way, Harry along the road, Jacob into the trees. Barker, after regaining his composure, shouted furiously, "Go after him!" And he pointed to Harry, a distance down the road now, being carried by his long, thin legs, giving him a particular advantage.

All three of the others began quickly after Harry. Barker, instead, turned his sights on the trees and to Jacob who was still in view. "I'm gonna kill you!" And there was a good possibility he would do just that, in the woods, and leave the body there where no one would find it—except for maybe a pack of animals, that would systematically tear it to shreds, leaving nothing but a rotting bone memorial of what he once was.

Jacob, in that moment, ran faster than he ever did. He avoided potholes, trees, snagging vines, all the things he'd seen in horror movies that caused the poor, fleeing souls to get tripped up, allowing the chasing evil to get closer, or to reach them. Barker pursued Jacob, avoiding the same obstacles, though a little bigger and a little less agile than the smaller boy he chased, his strength and speed allowed Barker to keep up. Jacob scrambled through the repetitive scenery in front of his eyes, trees, limbs, leaves, brush, everything was the same, and nowhere seemed a reliable place to play it safe; until he found the well.

There, in a small ravine, sat the old, abandoned stone well, a sharp contrast to the rest of the forest. A wooden, hinged top closed the opening of the well off to sunlight and obstruction. Knowing Barker was getting closer, Jacob did the only thing he thought he could do to get away. He ran over to the well and opened the heavy, wooden lid. He swung his legs over the edge of the wooden surface and stared down into the abysmal pit, and was stricken with a sudden fear—though it wasn't one strong enough to outweigh the threatening fear that still approached. Slowly, Jacob lowered himself down into the well, keeping his hands and fingers firmly gripped to the mortared stone, allowing himself to hang helplessly into the well. Falling was potentially deadly, the possibility only further pronounced as a small stone went sailing down from the top of the well into it, not offering affirmation of a bottom with the splashing of water or a tap to a hard surface. There was simply silence, as if it fell on forever. Jacob held firm to the stone, hoping that the well would hide him. Then he heard footsteps near the ravine, rustling the forest brush. It stopped. More brush moved, then silence again.

"You can't run forever!" Barker called out. "You have to come back to school sometime! And even if you don't come back, we'll come after you!" Which reminded Jacob of the threat Barker made to his parents. But the frustration heard in Barker's voice and the aimlessness of his remark was a sign of hope for Jacob.

Jacob tightened his grip on the stone, continuing to dangle helplessly from the edge of the well. One slip and he was doomed to fall to what was likely his death. One peep or audible movement and he was at the mercy of Barker's fury. There, hanging at the peak of the dark, unforgiving pit, Jacob was in the only medium of survival. Life somewhere within death. Earthly purgatory.

The brush of the forest floor was rustled again, becoming less and less audible, suggesting that Barker finally made his way on. Jacob hadn't yet breathed a sigh of relief. He had to muster himself up and out of the well, after assuring the coast was clear. Slowly and carefully, Jacob pulled himself up to peek over the shelf of the stone well, looking for any sign of Barker. There was none. He made it. Unfortunately, it was then that the stone he gripped with his right hand gave completely and shot down into the well as Jacob struggled to hold himself steady. His bare palm thrashed outward in fear, trying to grab any available surface that would support him in the well's innards, but none offered a hand. He swung like a broken pendulum, supported by a single hand gripping a mortared stone that was now his only line between life and death.

Sweat began to bead at Jacob's head as he whimpered at the direness of the situation he was in. His eyes shot up to opening of the well; his refuge. "Not... like this." He muttered before taking a quick breath. He held it as he mustered every bit of strength he could to swing his body to the right to allow for his loose hand to reach up for the shelf of the well. With his desperate exertion, he snatched the shelf of the well where the stone he'd held before had slipped and sailed into the blackness. Feeling the urgency of his situation and knowing that he hadn't much strength to hold on much longer, Jacob desperately pulled himself up from the well and then thrust himself over the edge, onto the forest floor. The piled, fallen leaves cushioned the impact of his fall and were, perhaps, the first thing all day to aid him and not attempt to contribute to his demise. There, he laid, back to the ground, sweat-stung eyes staring up to the canopy of the dense forest, looking through a small opening between the trees leaves as though he were still inside of a well, only one of tall trees instead mortared stone.

Jacob sat up and glanced back toward the direction of the road. He thought of Harry, who was probably in a much worse situation than Jacob was currently. He had three of the goons following him instead of one. However, Harry was fast and could certainly outrun the others if he had to. Jacob could only hope he was alright.

Carefully, Jacob stood from the ground and went about brushing the twigs and leaves from his arms and rear. He watched the odd well intensely, mystified by it, as though it bore some sort of unusual cloaking power—of course, it didn't. Jacob approached the stone cylinder with reverence, treating it as a sort of monument to his salvation, despite its efforts to swallow him entirely. Quietly, and to himself, "I guess wells are good luck after all." His hands went to the stone shelf of the well, from the outside, where it was much safer to do so. He smiled, looking down into the black pit once again. He wanted to shout into it, to test how deep it was, but he dared not to do so, taking into account the potential that Barker was still wandering the forest. Jacob assumed he wasn't; Barker wasn't known for his patience and determination. Instead, Jacob shoved his hands into his pockets, sorting through gum wrappers, some pencils and finally a small coin. He pulled the coin from his pocket, giving it a look over. It was an old penny, the sort that had been through hell and back, green and white with corrosion but still worth an uncherished, single cent. Jacob shrugged, "Well, I hope good luck isn't judged on what's spent..." And he flung the penny down the well, making his wish. He wished that he and Harry wouldn't be bullied anymore. That they would live their lives in peace. He wished, simply, that he would survive this most recent ordeal, if nothing else. With a sigh, Jacob began back toward the road, heading home.

That's when something unexpected occurred.

A page was flipped in the only book that was ever cast into the well since the imprisonment of Dr. Gerard Binkman. With a curious bit of self-talk, the Doctor mumbled, "What do you have in that chest, Mr. Porter?" Curious about a bit of mystery in the book he read. It was about then that a large stone came blasting through his silent space, like a meteorite across the earth's sky, slamming powerfully into the hard ground right beside him and near his treasured (though quite tattered) top hat. The sudden noise and closeness of the falling stone brought the doctor to shoot up from his ill-fashioned stool, send his book flailing into the air and onto the ground and caused him to move a short distance away from the curious, inanimate intruder. When the silence of his stony prison ensued, he took a careful step toward the fallen rock. His gloved hand scrambled for the monocle that rested near his breast pocket and, when retrieved, he fastened it at his eye while nearing the stone with absolute caution. Quickly, the doctor glanced up toward the hole at the top of his prison, waiting to see if anything else would fall into his desolate chamber. When nothing did, he moved next to the stone and lowered himself into a crouch, causing the ends of his dusty, black slacks to hike up over his ankles.

"Erosion?" He said, wonderingly. "Is it raining?" He would know if it was. When it did, his cell flooded with water, often demanding a quick rearrangement of the furniture he'd managed to craft from fallen branches and leaves. Of course, nothing had fallen into the well for a long, long time, ever since it was closed with its heavy wooden cap. Water was the only invader that seemed capable of slipping through the deteriorating wooden cover and it often provided a nuisance in an already very undesirable situation.

Immediately, Dr. Binkman started considering what he could use the stone for. Anytime a new object was delivered into the well, he had to make a consideration for its usefulness. This, though, was merely a stone. His purple, dead lips quirked to the side as he thought, then moved on to experimentation. He lifted his only book from the ground, placed it flush against his stone wall, and then put the rock on the other side of it, to keep the book vertical. "A book end? Hm." He shook his head. He lifted the stone, allowing the book to flop over flat on its back. He turned, tossing the small, yet cumbersome stone across the room. "A throwing object!" He shouted as the stone sailed across his prison, smashing into his feebly constructed seat, causing it to break into bits. "Oh! Well... that's quite unfortunate." He frowned, his monocle falling from his eye to hang by its gold chain. He let out a long sigh as he considered other ideas. It was about then that he heard a different sound, one a little less frightening and more captivating—a sound he hadn't heard in decades: the sound of a coin.

Dr. Binkman's heart would have raced had it still beat. But, it had been long dusted over and rusted since his imprisonment in the deep pit. Still, his face expressed pure excitement. "I-Is... is that it? What..." And his gloved hands extended hungrily toward the small object that fell. "Could that be?" His voice stammered with the immensity of his excitement. "Finally? Has it happened?" And he lowered himself to his knees, in a reverent position greater than the crouch given to the fallen stone, or the ritualistic submission to crosses their hanging deities on Sunday mornings. His fingers fumbled to pick up the small, corroded penny, but when it was properly gripped, he replaced his fallen monocle and gave it a look over. "It is! It is!" He shouted, leaping from his knees to his feet in a single, exuberant push. "I have it! I finally have it!" He held the soiled coin high in the air and began to dance around his confined, damp place, jumping occasionally in the air to tap his heels together with jubilee. "I can't believe this is happening. It's finally happened. Oh! Count! I need to count!" And on he went toward a small hole in the wall. There, he pulled a tiny satchel that jingled and jangled with the sound of coin currency. Like a child made to listen to a story, he sat himself down cross-legged on the floor and poured the coins onto the ground. Dr. Binkman corralled the coins into a single pile and began counting them and placing them into a second pile. "One dollar." And he continued on, with each coin counted in a breathy, sub-audible exertion. "Two dollars!" He shouted, feeling the spine tingling sensation of potential success. "Three beautiful dollars." On he counted, coin by coin, flipping the counted coins into an ever growing pile. "Four!" He shouted, shooting his clenched hands into the air. And quickly he was back to it. "Five whole dollars!" The original pile was shrinking and he only hoped he hadn't miscounted. It was nearly impossible, as Dr. Binkman counted the coins almost every day. "Six dollars... Six dollars and fifty cents... six dollars and sixty cents... six dollars and sixty-five cents..." And he paused in awe of what was certain success, definitively so when he lifted the very final, corroded coin that fell. "Six dollars... and sixty-six cents! I'm free! I'm free!" He rose, dancing around again. He shouted to the walls, as if they could hear him. "You hear me?! I'm gone from this blasted place! I'm gone, gone, gone!" And he lowered to the ground, scooped the coins into his hand and placed them all into his satchel.

When Dr. Binkman stood, there was a long stride in each of his steps as he approached the obscure, moss-covered door that led to his captor's chamber. With a firm plant of his feet, a sort of military-style "attention" stance, he rapped on the wooden door, drawing the attention of the door guard.

The hulking obscenity of a creature lumbered toward Dr. Binkman's door, grumbling an utterance that curdled phlegm in its throat (a throat unobservable for the fatness of the creature). When it arrived, it lifted long, pointy digits, seemingly poured onto the mass that was its palm, to lift its only remaining eye that hung from the deep socket. The hanging eye was appropriated and pointed toward Binkman and the guard asked, in a low, guttural tone. "What?" Words struggling through decay and nasty obstruction.

The doctor lifted his satchel, shaking it in the little, barred window of the door. He neared closer to the wooden surface and giggled with excitement as he spoke. "I have the coin necessary to buy my way out of here! I'd like to speak with Our Lady, hmm?" And he fondly tapped the door with his gloved fingers.

The monstrosity turned his eye to look down one way of the hall and then the other. The eye was pointed again at Binkman, pushed between the bars of the door to peer around inside of the cell, to verify the doctor wasn't up to something he shouldn't have been. When everything seemed clear, the eye was dropped to hang and the detestable guard pulled open the door, ripping from it years of rust and corroded fusing. Binkman prepared to step out, but he quickly shifted and turned back toward the room, offering a "hold just one moment" finger to the impatient abomination. Hastily, the doctor snagged his top hat from the ground, dusted at it (though it made little difference) and rushed back to the door, stepping on and out of it into the corridor.

The creature, whose very existence was vulgar, slammed the door shut, rousing many other confined prisoners. It then moved down the hall, hanging eye swinging back and forth while massive, pallid legs urged the sick beast forward. Dr. Binkman noted that the creature smelled of a combination of rotting fish and fresh vomit and Binkman purposefully maintained a tolerable distance from his lead. The entire skin of the creature was coated with a sort of dripping ooze that left a small, pungent trail in its wake. Its flesh hung in certain places and in others gripped far too tightly to its imbalanced skeletal frame. When they reached the end of the hall, the grotesque guide stepped back, allowing Binkman to carry on himself to what was a large door to the main chamber of the prison. Dr. Binkman tipped his hat politely to his guide, which received little response from the unamused attendant. Next, the doctor wasted no time pulling the large door open and stepping into a room he'd only had the opportunity to see once or twice since his long imprisonment within the bowels of the earth, deep below the well.

The room itself was different than the mossy, damp halls that led to the prisons. Within, the walls were constructed of a smooth obsidian stone, so black that they played tricks on the mind. It seemed that, should one approach too closely, they'd be sucked into the infinite abyss of them forever. The floors, however, were more of a dark tile, with veins of white running through them, as lightning would through a night's starless sky. The contrast (and always the most alluring feature) were the large, crimson red ribbons that framed the room's crest, along the ceiling and across the peaks of those obsidian walls. Silk and transparent, the ribbons offered little comfort from the infinite abyss they attempted hiding, but still they were attractive. And that seductive red did not end at the decorative ribbons; they culminated at her lips. In the center of the room The Lady sat, draped sideways across her throne of bleeding skulls. Her long, red hair hung down to the floor as her head draped back over the left armrest, her haunting green eyes watching Dr. Binkman as he sauntered awkwardly into her presence, and she simply waited, stoically.

The doctor quickly removed his hat to bow to The Lady. He held the top hat at his chest, a safe distance from her perch and stammered out the words he'd said in comfort moments ago. "My Dear Lady. My Liege. My Dark Queen. I-I've..." And he glanced down to his side and to the pouch of collected coins. "...I've earned the coin necessary to grant my freedom, as we've agreed, yes?" The hopeful tagline gripped to his plea, hoping it would remind her of their agreement. If he earned six dollars and sixty-six cents, he would be set free. It was then that The Lady smiled, brought her knees up toward her voluptuous chest, showing just enough of her snow white, pale flesh to incite arousal, and smiled a sweet, sweet smile.

"Your freedom?" She echoed. Her voice was as sensuous as vanilla, but her question was thick with contempt.

"My Dear Lady, we did have an agreement. It was many years ago now. Decades, I believe." The time scale instinctively brought the doctor to brush at his soiled overcoat, knowing he must have looked a mess before the beautiful creature.

"Yes. Yes, we did have an agreement, didn't we?" And she cocked her head, either eliciting the illusion that her captivating smile spread or it actually did. The latter would have been much more dangerous for Binkman.

Binkman stood awkwardly, sure he had shared the information that was most pertinent to his release. He'd brought the coin they'd agreed on. She apparently understood his message. Still, there was a coy look on her face, as if to say there was something more to the agreement that Binkman hadn't initial realized, or was suddenly tacked on as a sudden amendment.

"I... did not forget something, did I?" It was all that Binkman could muster.

"No, no. You did not, dear doctor. But you are mine, aren't you?" She purred.

Binkman would have blushed, but the blood did not flow through him as it did his living days. Again, he tipped forward in a bow. "I am, of course. But..." He dared. "...we had an agreement." With a hard swallow.

The ruby-lipped woman rose from her bleeding throne and moved swiftly toward the doctor. Each tap of her tall, stiletto heels shook Dr. Binkman to his core, almost driving him to turn around and flee back to his pitiful prison. The woman stopped in front of him, driving her piercing gaze through his head like a bullet.

"Owners don't make agreements with their slaves, sweetheart." And she narrowed the safe zone between them, her glossed, Satan-red lips close to his cracking, purple grimace. "You're mine until I decide otherwise." And she snatched his coins away before turning and heading back toward her throne. Instead of moving back into it, she curved around the large seat, lifting a beckoning finger to draw the frightened doctor her way. He followed, the slave he was.

Behind the throne was a small, standing basin of liquid, as still as an empty sky, and as black as tar. She waved Binkman forth and he came with apprehension. With an arched and precisely sculpted brow, the woman's eyes drifted to the basin. Binkman leaned forward to see what it was she saw.

A scene played out within, showing the children, Jacob, Harry, Barker, Brain, Gassy and Crater all in the quad during the event with the jump rope. Binkman saw the four boys terrorizing the two others and humiliating them in front of their peers. It brought Binkman to quirk a brow of his own, glancing to his hostess. "My Lady, is there something I should know about this image?"

The woman smiled, leaning back while resting a hand on her hip. "I wouldn't be showing you this if there wasn't a reason for it, doctor. I'm willing to grant you your freedom for the coins you've collected and for another small favor." Of course, it wasn't a favor she was truly requesting; it was a demand. Binkman started wondering if she was concerned with the coins at all, or of it was all part of a ploy to keep him docile for so long. Still, he asked.

"What is it you desire, My Dark Queen?" Playing the role of someone that was still concerned with pleasing her. However, Binkman tried to be sincere, as he knew the woman could infiltrate the sanctity of his mind at any time she chose.

"Those boys. The four harassing the other two? I desire them in your place. They're rotten and terrible, full of violence and twisted thoughts." With each choice word to explain the quartet, her salacious smile grew larger and larger until it was a full-blown expression of ecstasy. Her face bore the expression but for a moment before it went sour. "All things you are, doctor Binkman. All things that are hard to replace in a single, outstanding terror like yourself. So outstanding a terror, mind you, that I need four different little monsters to culminate to the wickedness stuffed deep down inside of you." And, still at a distance, she pointed a finger in his direction. Though there was no direct contact, Binkman felt as though he were shoved with that finger directly in the center of his chest, causing him to roll back on his heel. The doctor swallowed hard once more.

"Besides, there's a golden lining to all of this, my dear doctor." She revealed.

"A golden lining?" To Binkman, certainty of his freedom, or as much certainty as could be expected from the woman, was enough. But, his ears perked and he listened.

"One of the boys there, being mistreated by those four I expect you to collect? He's the one that tossed that last coin your way, allowing for this very counsel." She laughed with glee as she rounded the black basin, nearing Dr. Binkman once more. Binkman stood as stiff as a board while she curled around behind him and brought her arms up under his, to place her soft palms and manicured fingers to his chest.

She whispered near the doctor's ear. "Look in again." Referring to the basin.

Binkman shuddered with the touch. It'd been so long since he'd felt the touch of a woman. His desire for it was a great part of the reason he'd come to this dark prison in the first place. He did as he was instructed, submissively, and leaned forward to look into the basin.

The doctor saw nothing but himself. The image in the still, black fluid seemed dead and run-down. The color of the liquid itself distorted the colors of the reflection, but it was still possible to discern that, whatever it was he'd become, it was no longer living and hardly human. It was then that something much worse, something without even the facade of his humanity, crept into the image. He felt the woman behind him lean forward and her reflection cast was not the beautiful image he'd seen upon arrival; it was a twisted, macabre monstrosity, its face curled into a sinister stare, with a long, spear-like nose. As it spoke, the sound came from the woman behind him, leaning near his shoulder, but the grotesque, sharp-toothed mouth of the demon beside his reflection moved to mouth the words in sync.

"You won't leave here without my little ball and chain." For the doctor's keeper knew that anyone taking such capital absolutely had to leave something in collateral.

The doctor looked to the woman at his side, his possessor, then back to the sickening reflection in the basin pool, as if to verify, for the sake of his own sanity, that the being beside him was the same one responsible for the demonic guise. Or, was it the other way around? The woman the guise for the demon? The doctor couldn't contemplate the thought for long before the woman's spidery fingers descended into the black pool and seemed to "grip" the face of her terrible reflection and literally lift it from the liquid to manifest the image into a reality, if any of the experiences could qualify as such. Then, as the viscous liquid clumped and shed from the vibrantly contrasting, pale hand to drip back into the pool, she held only the dark mask.

Now, no longer obscured by the opaque fluid, the true details of the mask, which was presumed by the doctor to be a face, moments ago manipulated in the image to have expression and speak, were clear and able to be seen. The forehead of the mask was crunched and deep, elderly lines creased what was a sort of dark cast metal from which it seemed made. The eyes of the mask were heavy-lidded and slightly cant in a diagonal that expressed anger or fury. The nose, the most prominent feature, was long and curved downward, extended in what may have been six or seven inches in length. The tip of that nose seemed razor sharp at its point. And the mouth, second only to that nose in size, stretched in a wide, Cheshire semi-circle with rows and rows of sharp, hungry teeth. It was terrible in the reflection, but absolutely harrowing manifested before him; so profound an image that it seemed to be an entirely different entity in the room.

The doctor clambered for speech. "W-What is it you intend for this...?" He hadn't a proper word in his expansive vocabulary to describe it.

"This..." The woman said as she rounded him, looking into his dead eyes. "...is your 'ball and chain.'"

The doctor wasn't absolutely sure what she meant, but his speculations about what the woman alluded to became clear when she extended the mask's innards (a sort of reversed image from the inside, equally discontenting) in his direction. "Put it on. All will know you are a monster, despite your freedom. And that you're my monster, Dr. Binkman." Always asserting her power over her captive.

The doctor shuddered at the thought of donning the terrible mask. In life, Dr. Binkman wasn't a terrible looking man. He'd been popular with the women, but Binkman's faults rested mostly in that he intended to be popular with women that wouldn't have him so. If Binkman had a chance at all, he'd at least make the conditions clear.

"And... if I bring these children to you—the ones you desire—then you will remove this mask so that I might be as I once was?" Binkman asked hopefully, knowing he hadn't much for negotiating power. Worse, the conditions of their last agreement on his freedom were now receiving a last-minute caveat that made an enormous difference.

A short fit of sweet, amused laughter and the woman, his Dark Lady, answered as cryptically as Binkman would have expected. "Well, it would most certainly increase your odds, wouldn't it?"

Binkman hoped for something more direct, but hope in a place like this was a sparse commodity and it was better left to the birds. He simply nodded, lifted his chin and waited for her decree. It was his only chance, if there was ever a chance, and it was a better one than spending an eternity in a molding hole beneath a well.

The Dark Lady approached with a giddy smile, white rows of straight teeth licked at as though she prepared to partake of a delicious morsel, and with her, nearer and nearer came the terrible mask until it came to his face. The moment the dark metal touched his cold, dead flesh, there was an immense, searing pain. The mask burned into his skin, sending up wisps of smoke around his head. In that moment, he became one with the terrible thing. When his eyes blinked, so did the heavy, angry eyes of the mask. When his mouth contorted, so did the long, terrible maw of the mask, deadly teeth spreading to match its exaggerated size. The terrible thing was no longer simply a mask—it was his new face, the face he'd have in the free world. It was his new prison, for he knew such a thing could not be seen openly in the world above, otherwise a similar exile would resume. His meetings would have to be focused, direct and devious. That, they would be.

When the agonizing pain subdued, Binkman stood, holding his new face, feeling it, trying to understand what he'd become. The woman, delighted with the transformation of her pet, clapped and stood back to appreciate him.

"You are a stunning creature, doctor. I daresay, this is the best you've ever looked!" And her fingers intertwined with adoration.

Sadly, Binkman believed the Dark Lady truly thought so. Her tastes were far different than any other he'd ever met. She enjoyed the sick and twisted, reveled in the macabre and horrific.

His new mouth curled to produce the words, although awkwardly. "Now?"

"Now? Now you meet the boy." And with a simple snap of her fingers, Binkman felt as though he were being torn in two.

Vertical lines blurred through his obscured vision and he felt an immense pressure at his feet. Suddenly, without expecting it, the doctor burst through the shelf of dirt at the surface, far above his prison, sending a surprising and terrifying display of dirt, dead leaves and brush around his emerging body. The sudden blast from Binkman's release sent Jacob back, causing him to lose his balance and fall to the ground, completely aghast of what was occurring in the forest before the busy highway. Something literally had just risen from the earth, and with shocking spectacle. However, such spectacle would resolve to absolute consternation as Jacob actually saw what it was that arrived. It was not human.

Jacob's first reaction was similar to that instinctively felt when in danger of running into Barker or his gang. He scrambled along the ground, pushing his body low and to the ground in a crab walk along the forest floor, dry twigs and leaves crumbling beneath his scuttle. As soon as he was far away from the horror, he turned and darted the direction opposite of the highway, back toward the well. He moved as quickly as his legs could carry him, but he could not lose the approaching monster. It closed in on him.

Binkman, almost as confused and distraught as the boy was, shouted out, in a language, at least, that was not foreign to the boy. "Stop! I'm not going to hurt you! I'm here to help you!"

Nothing could have stopped Jacob's charge now. He was dodging trees swiftly, having gained no experience from his prior escape, as the forest seemed to be an ever changing riddle on the eyes. It was then that the riddle of surprise caught him. Jacob's full stride to a desired freedom brought him instead to a large, jutting branch and in a swift knock to the head, Jacob was down and nearly unconscious. Without having to chase the boy, Binkman arrived only a moment later, standing over Jacob observantly.

Jacob did all he could and started to scream. No longer was he worried about the potential of Barker finding him in the forest. As strange as it was, Jacob almost wished Barker was here, to witness this, to be able to be a witness to whatever it was that was about to happen to him. Jacob's mind rolled through the potential methods of his demise for the second time this day, considering the possibility of having his face tore from his body by those sharp, discolored rows of teeth, or to be ripped apart by those long, wiry arms. He considered the chance that the monster would lean over and peck his eyeballs out like a scavenger bird with the long, razor-point nose that came from its face. Instead, the monster simply reached down and lifted Jacob up and to his feet.

Jacob stood clumsily with the assistance and was entirely too disoriented to run. Instead he stared at the horror before him, waiting for it to pounce, helplessly. Instead, Binkman spoke up, reasonably and with apparent intentions of peace.

"I'm not here to hurt you, boy. I'm here to help you." Binkman advised. He was frustrated, but not tired. He didn't breathe as he did in the living. Binkman was unsure if his eventual freedom would involve actual life, but to be conscious of the world above, breathing was a superfluous addition to the many other inheritances of freedom.

Jacob at first didn't understand. Between the blow and the sudden, spawned chaos incited by the figure that burst from the earth, he had trouble comprehending what was being said.

The doctor elaborated. "Listen to me, boy. I don't care to be here with you any longer than you care to have me. It so happens that I am tasked with bringing a few nuisances back to the Dark Lady below the well. Below the well you released me from." And with the emphasis on the "you," Dr. Binkman pointed toward Jacob with a long, spotlight finger.

Jacob gestured to himself with both hands, splaying the fingers of his hands across his chest. "Me? I... saved you?" He shook his head, signaling he didn't understand.

Binkman nodded, turning that pointing finger out toward the forest's wilderness, to denote the direction of the well from which Jacob was returning. "Did you not cast a penny down the well in the forest?" Binkman asked again, turning the ugly catastrophe atop his shoulders to face Jacob once more.

Every time those dark, maleficent eyes landed on Jacob, he felt his heart sink. "I did." Suddenly it seemed like a bad idea to cast the corroded penny into the well. If he truly did release this monster, his suspicions of bad luck were likely true. However, Binkman's information slowly relinquished that thought.

"Do you understand what I'm saying? I was trapped for decades below that blasted stone prison! You've released me!" Said the monstrosity, large grin spreading across its face to seemingly consume the majority of it whole.

Jacob reeled back at the alarming sight of the expression. "So, you're not going to hurt me?" To be certain.

Binkman shook his head quickly. "Quite the contrary, young man. I'm going to help you, as I alluded to before. Those four boys?" And he neared. "The ones that have been haunting you?" And closer he came. "The ones that have been making your life... as much a prison as the world below the well?" And soon Binkman closed the distance between himself and Jacob, without Jacob retreating. Instead, Jacob stood innocently in the commodious shadow of the imposing Doctor Binkman. "Perhaps..." And the doctor leaned down to the boy, settling his twisted face before that of the child's, whose eyes were wide with shock. "...we will teach them a lesson so grand they'll never, ever, ever touch you again, boy." And he cackled before standing at his full height, which seemed stories high to Jacob. He ruffled the boy's hair with his dead, cold fingers before waiting for Jacob's response.

Jacob thought about the potential. While terrified, purely because he'd never seen anything quite like the horror before him, Jacob was more attuned to fear than others. He lived it, day in and day out. This "tempering" alone allowed for him to reasonably contemplate the offer. "You're going to scare them?" He considered, paraphrasing the monster's ideas.

Binkman tapped his large, ebony chin. What he had in mind was far greater than a "scare," but for sake of keeping the boy on board, and being able to lure the children from the open, where Binkman would be able to present himself, "scaring" would have to be the current agreement.

"Scare them? Oh, ho, ho!" The doctor smiled again, as wretchedly as before. "I will scare them more than you can imagine." And the slyness of his voice told a harrowing, but otherwise unspoken, tale.

The sinister tone in the monster's voice slipped right into Jacob like a sort of contagion. The mere thought of getting Barker and his gang back after everything they've done! And this thing was willing to help him do it. It was terrifying and unnatural—it was perfect.

"What do I need to do, then?" Jacob asked, as if to understand the plan, if there was one.

Binkman continued to grin that wide, terrible grin, satisfied with how simple it was, still, to convince children to do as he pleased. "Simple, boy. All you need to do is get the cretins to follow you into a dark place. Wherever that place is, I will be waiting!"

Jacob couldn't imagine a more appropriate setting for the monstrosity that rose from the ground. He considered the possibility that the horror before him was a manifestation of the darkness itself. He thought momentarily on the one that was referred to as the "Dark Lady," but refrained from asking about her.

"What do I call you?" Jacob asked, canting his head. He could have thought up a name for the horror, the same as he'd done for all of Barker's gang.

"I..." Binkman started, tipping his grand form forward with a lift of his hat, respectfully. "...am Doctor Gerard Binkman. And you?" Binkman questioned in return.

Jacob felt suddenly insecure divulging such information, but he confessed, "I'm Jacob. Jacob Fidder. My best friend is Harry. I think he actually might be in trouble. You see, he shoved Barker and ran off. The rest of Barker's gang went after him. I ran into the forest and found that well, and you, I suppose." Jacob, for the first time, was able to look away from the Doctor, to peer in the direction that he thought the well might have been in.

Binkman nodded swiftly, pointing toward the highway, opposite the direction of their most recent chase. "And you can show me where this boy lives?"

Jacob nodded himself and waved Binkman on. "You can't just walk out in the open, can you? I mean, people shouldn't see you. You don't look like others." In a softened remark.

Binkman walked at half pace in comparison to the boy at his side. "No, no. I don't intend to show myself until the time is right, boy." Ignoring his name, despite having known it.

"Then how will you hear me? Or see me?" Jacob asked, beginning to open up.

Binkman squirmed on the inside, and tamed his frustration for having to deal with the boy and his questions. "I've been a friend of the darkness for a long, long time, Jacob. I know how to use it to my advantage." And the answer remained mysterious. "I am always watching."

To that, Jacob nodded and said no more.

In time, they would reach the highway and they'd continue along the path that Jacob and Harry usually walked after school while headed home. As Jacob moved along on the side of the highway, a short distance from the zooming cars and trucks, Binkman never emerged from the forest. Feeling alone, despite what Binkman said, Jacob asked aloud, to verify his promise if nothing else.

"You still there?" Jacob asked.

"As here as any have ever been." Binkman's voice came into Jacob's ear like a close whisper. It actually brought the boy to instinctively pull his head opposite the side from where he heard the words. However, upon inspection, there was no Doctor Binkman; only an endless, dark forest.

In time they reached Jacob and Harry's neighborhood. Upon arriving at Harry's block, Jacob noticed a figure hiding around the side of Harry's house. Jacob ducked behind a neighbor's car and tried to make out who remained. With a sharp squint, Jacob realized who it was that snuck outside of Harry's house: Brain.

Surprisingly, the boy appeared to be alone. Jacob whispered then, assuming Binkman could hear him. "That one's Brain. I'm not sure what he's doing. Maybe he's waiting for me to show up or something? Expecting I'll come and check on Harry?" It was Jacob's best guess, seeing as he didn't expect Harry would come out after being chased all the way home.

Binkman was, in fact, listening. He presented himself physically beside Jacob, and Jacob noticed that the grotesqueness about the doctor was worsening. Not only had his face been absolutely detestable—the sort of thing from nightmares—the doctor's body began to become misshapen. His arms seemed to thin and elongate. His body seemed to grow and become more bulbous and unnatural. His ears began to extend into long peaks, stretched several inches longer than anything that was normal. If Jacob's new accomplice wasn't a monster before, he was certainly one now.

Binkman seemed aware of his transformation. It appeared that the mask was consuming him entirely; making him into a new sort of creature, and a disgusting one that matched the horrific attributes of the mask. The mostly freed doctor appeared uncomfortable with himself, maneuvering to reposition his awkward weight and form, squatting beside Jacob and the veiling vehicle.

Binkman responded, then. "Perhaps he is! Perhaps he isn't." Through ragged breaths.

Jacob shrugged then, his brows moving high on his forehead. "Then? What do you want to do?"

Binkman rose slowly, just enough to allow for those slanting, demonic eyes to peer over the crest of the car's top. He noticed Brain was in the shadows between the two houses. "I believe I know exactly what it is I will do." And that wicked sneer crossed Binkman's face.

Jacob nodded quickly, becoming excited by the prospect of getting some revenge. But then something occurred to Jacob: despite wanting to get back at the vile quartet, he had no will to have any of them hurt.

Jacob asked then, curiously. "What do you intend to do? You're just going to scare him, right? You're not going to hurt him, are you?" Bright, innocent eyes became hopeful.

The doctor cocked his head to the side, bewildered by the question. "You are concerned about what it is I do to get these cretins back?" An odd name to be called from one as terrible as Binkman appeared.

"I-I guess I just don't want anyone hurt. I mean, I want them to stop, of course!" He shouted, but then quickly quieted himself, ducking a bit lower behind the car. "But it's terrible to feel hurt. I feel it all the time." Sorrowfully.

Binkman smirked, dissatisfied with the boy's evaluation. Fear wouldn't get the little boys to the Dark Lady. What the Lady wanted was the boy's precious souls. And the Lady would have what she desired, if it would assure the doctor's freedom. However, Binkman was deceitful, self-absorbed and hardly concerned with the matters of a boy like Jacob. But then, he needed the boy's trust in order to lure the rest of the party. One boy from the gang wouldn't be enough, and sending Brain off to the Dark Lady without the others wasn't enough to satisfy the frail agreement.

"Of course I won't hurt him, my child!" And his long, thin fingers, each bearing a sharpened, yellowed nail, tread gently across Jacob's face. It caused Jacob to repel and look at Binkman queerly. Binkman then realized that the action was probably terrifying, being as Binkman was and had become, so his hands lowered. He had to fight for a control for decency. Besides, Binkman had no will to follow the same, terrible cycle that admit him to his dark prison before.

"And what should I do?" Jacob asked, unsure.

Binkman shook his head. "Oh, you will do nothing. I will protect your friend, boy. Harry will be just fine." And Binkman's head nodded up and down, causing a slight shift of his tall top hat.

Jacob seemed surprised at first, before accepting that he wouldn't have a part. Actually, Jacob preferred it that way. He stepped back, as if preparing to leave. "And... you won't hurt him, right?" Verifying what Binkman had said one last time.

The doctor refused to offer a verbal response, but his head went from a fervent nod to a slow, sly shake.

Jacob smirked and decided to sneak off back home. It wasn't until the next day that Jacob would discover the result of Binkman's accomplishments.

Jacob and Harry decided that they would stay together throughout the day. Harry was confused about how confident Jacob seemed about the situation, especially since the actions committed the day before, to include Harry almost shoving Barker into oncoming traffic, left Harry running home for his life. The walk to school seemed more like a death march than anything else; an inevitable crawl back to the consequences of standing up to the quartet. Harry considered that Jacob might have resolved that this was the end. Maybe Jacob thought that, if death was coming, he was going to accept it smiling. However, Harry couldn't do the same. It wasn't until the two of them arrived at the school that morning that it became clearer as to why Jacob was so nonchalant.

There was no sign of Barker and the gang. For most of the day, things seemed as normal as they could seem. When the students all descended upon the quad at lunch, the gang finally revealed itself. However, they occasionally looked back toward Harry and Jacob, but didn't immediately approach them and didn't made a stand. The one person that Jacob was most interested in seeing was Brain, the only one to have been exposed to Binkman, but Brain wasn't even there. It made Jacob terribly curious about what happened. Still, whatever it was, it was keeping the group at bay.

Harry didn't understand why he was still being allowed to breath on the day he expected would hold his execution. Finally, he had to ask.

"Jacob. Why aren't they pounding the life out of us right now?" Harry sat at one of the tables, being sure to be on the side that faced the distant gang of misfits.

Jacob shrugged with a smile. "I don't know." While eating from a sandwich.

"You've seemed fine all day long. You don't know anything?" Harry inquired further.

"Nothing. Well, I know that we don't have to worry about anything anymore. It's over, Harry. It's all over." Jacob professed.

Harry's eyes slowly widened, expressing quite the opposite. Harry's enlightenment came only because he was able to see the impending doom walking their way. The whole gang, to include the pigtailed Caitlin (Gassy's awkward, terribly resilient girlfriend) stepped up right behind Jacob, casting a shadow over him as the houses shadowed Brain for Binkman's unknown assault.

"Hey, fucktards." Barker's voice was distinct and angry, but the words weren't accompanied by the customary slap-to-the-back-of-the-head that usually came with an approach from the flank. Jacob spun around in his chair, abandoning his sandwich to the table to swallow hard. Maybe he wasn't so safe after all.

Jacob replied, shakily. "B-Barker! How's it going?" And Jacob offered and awkward smile.

Barker immediately grabbed a hold of Jacob's shirt, pulling him from the table to literally stand him up in front of him. "You must think you're real funny, doing what you did to Bryan, huh? You're a sicker fuck than I thought." Releasing him just to allow for him to get closer and more in Jacob's face.

"S-sick?" Jacob whelped.

Harry scratched his head, rising as well when his instincts to flee began to flood in. Both confused and terrified, he watched what was happening as if his life depended on it.

"Yeah. Brain won't even come to school. Won't even say what happened. He's in the hospital and all he can say is your name. Your name!" And he shoved Jacob hard, sending him back toward the bench of the table. Jacob caught himself with a hand to the bench before standing up again.

"In the hospital? Is he hurt?" Jacob asked, wondering if Binkman didn't satisfy his promise.

Crater smacked Barker on the arm, chiming in as he usually did. "Now this idiot wants to act like he wasn't responsible?" And that high-pitched laugh rang out, only with a tinge of desperation.

"You tell me, shit bag! You're the reason he's there, aren't you?" Another sharp shove came. Another quick save on the part of Jacob. The only reason Jacob could assume that he wasn't a bloody mess in the grass was because Barker seemed interested in knowing what happened to Brain. He wanted to know for his own sake. The mystery scared Barker and concerned Jacob. But, the fact was this: Jacob was not a bloody mess. That was progress.

In a moment of sheer, foolish bravery, Jacob puffed his chest and proclaimed: "You might want to watch out! If you don't leave Harry and me alone, it'll happen to you too!" An overzealous bluff. Harry's jaw dropped in shock. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Had Jacob lost his mind, he thought? If they weren't dead from yesterday's actions, it appeared Jacob's "last stand" here in the quad solidified their sentence.

"What the fuck did you just say to me?" Barker neared again, showing the bluff didn't work as Barker's aggression rose.

Instantaneously, Jacob's own fight or flight instincts kicked in, but he remembered what Binkman said: Simple, boy. All you need to do is get the cretins to follow you into a dark place. Wherever that place is, I will be waiting! Jacob shouted as Harry had the day before after the bold act. "Run, Harry! Run to the pool!"

Harry didn't have to think twice. He flew with his long, lanky body in the direction of the pool house, beside the gym. The pool seemed a strange place to run. It had been shut down for almost a year due to a spread of a bacterial infection on those exposed to the water. The building was closed and the pool was covered. The lights were turned off, but children often snuck into a small window near the back to do whatever things they wanted to do that they shouldn't have. The window itself allowed anyone entering into the girl's locker room, which then led out into the main pool area. Jacob and Harry had used the location more than once to skip classes in attempts to avoid coming across the gang, so they both knew where to go to get in.

The race was on, with Harry leagues ahead of the others. Jacob, having made the call, had a short lead ahead of the four others, Brain's spot filled by Caitlin. Quickly they rounded the large building to the back and by the time Jacob had turned the corner, he could already see Harry's legs slipping into the window. Jacob was next. He leapt to the low window, pulling himself inside as quickly as he could. It was then that he felt a firm grip on his left shoe and a force trying to pull him back out.

"I don't think so!" The voice was Gassy's. "Cait, grab his other foot! Don't let him get in there."

Jacob struggled hopelessly, trying to overcome the strength of the two on the outside intending to draw him into his demise and away from safety. Jacob looked up and saw Harry inside of the dark locker room and begged. "Harry! Harry, for Christ's sake, pull me in!" And Jacob's hands pushed on the inside wall of the locker room, trying to get leverage.

Harry froze in that moment, as he usually had when things became too stressful or too frightening. Jacob immediately noticed the glaze-over in his best friend's eyes and shouted to pull him out of it.

"Harry! If you don't pull me in they're going to kill me!" Jacob plead, tears welling in his eyes.

Harry suddenly snapped out of his haze and rushed forward to grab a hold of Jacob's hands, beginning to tug with all of his strength. At the same time Jacob's legs kicked and squirmed violently, thrashing in any way he could to try and free himself from the grip of the two.

"Pull harder, damn it!" Crater could be heard. A third hand could be felt grabbing a hold of Jacob's leg just as soon as he broke free from the grips of the others, sending a swift foot into Crater's face. Free from the others, Jacob was pulled into the locker room and safe... for a moment. It occurred to Harry, at least, that they were trapped. Even if they had made it this far, it was a dead end, one that would only delay the inevitable.

Jacob seemed less concerned and tried to regain himself after his close encounter with death. He wasted little time in directing Harry to the door that led out to the pool. "We need to go!" And they rushed out into the large room with the covered pool.

Chairs lined the edge of the pool. Jacob swiftly closed the large, metal door to the locker room and propped one of those chairs under the handle. Then, Jacob realized there was nothing else he could do but wait and hope that Binkman would do as he said.

Outside, Crater was furious and bleeding from his mouth. "I'm going to kill them! Kill them this time!" He shouted.

Barker swat Crater on the arm and pulled him from the ground. "Let's go around to the other side and see if there's another way in. We'll surround them! Gassy, you and Cait go in through the window and we'll meet you in there when we find an entrance. Got it?" Barker's orders were swift as he gestured with his head the direction him and Crater were to go. Crater, begrudgingly, wiped at his lip and followed swiftly after the gang's leader.

Gassy looked at Caitlin, offering her an irritated look. "Of course, they're gonna send the fattest one in the window!" And he shook his head, looking at the small space he'd have to crawl through to make it in.

"I'll go in first. You come in behind me. I'll help you get in, alright?" Caitlin assured him.

Caitlin then hopped into the opening with ease, shifting in a way that allowed for her body to make it through. Once inside, she gestured for Gassy to follow instead of examining the door closed behind Jacob and Harry. Gassy sighed and hopped meagerly toward the window, at first with no luck. Immediately, he started to sweat. He tried again, struggling with all of his might to make it into the window, and did so with much effort. He pulled his body forward as far as he could before the window would allow him to move no further. At the peak of his blubbery stomach, he became stuck in the window frame. Caitlin pulled as hard as she could, but her tugging only seemed to make the situation worse.

"I'm stuck!" Gassy shouted, expressing the obvious.

"I know! Keep pushing yourself in!" Caitlin replied, trying to get her odd choice of a boyfriend free.

Harry and Jacob listened at the door, concerned that they only heard two voices, but temporarily sated knowing that Gassy couldn't make it through the window. It was then that a third voice was heard, but it wasn't a voice of one of the gang's heathens.

"Too fat, boy. Too much fried food." The strange voice spoke from one of the aisles between the lockers.

Immediately, both Gassy and Caitlin looked up, no longer working on getting Gassy through the restrictive opening.

"Who's there?" Caitlin asked with a noticeable crack of fear in her voice.

Only the tapping of shoes was heard in response.

Gassy looked quickly to Caitlin. "Who is that?" He whispered. "Is that them?" Before his wide eyes followed the approaching sound.

"They say: 'An apple a day keeps the doctor away.'" The voice came again, with a sharp, threatening cackle.

Gassy began trying to pull himself back out of the window at this point, believing it was best to abandon the effort altogether. Caitlin struggled to try and help him out the other way, but there wasn't a chance. Gassy was stuck and so was she.

Harry, outside of the barricaded door asked in a whisper. "Who is that, Jacob? Are one of the faculty members in here or a janitor or something?"

Jacob shook his head, knowing the voice that he heard was that of Doctor Binkman. He didn't answer Harry and continued to listen.

It was at this point that Binkman emerged from the shadows to which he melded. His now wide body, carried on elongated stilt legs wandered forth. His twisted grin stretched across his entire face, literally from ear to ear, with a maw so wide and so terrifying it seemed it could have swallowed a small child whole. In his hand, however, was a red gasoline can, which was a familiar sight to the now tightly-wedged Gassy.

Caitlin immediately flew back and away from Gassy, all but abandoning him to the nearing monstrosity that stepped from the shadows, as if a shadow of a shadow, darker and more corrupt than anything she'd ever seen. Gassy started to scream, as did Caitlin, who was near one of the corners, as far away as she could manage herself.

"Caitlin! Caitlin! Get me out of here!" Gassy cried.

Caitlin did nothing, but instead collapsed down in fear and helplessness.

Binkman continued forward, setting the gas can down near the two. "Oh! Don't worry, I'm just here to have a little fun. We're going to play a game, children. Just a little game. I promise, you won't feel the fire." And he laughed, rocking his terrible head back.

Harry's eyes went wide and he began immediately working at the door. "We have to do something!" Harry said, feeling a strange sympathy for the two that had been known to terrorize him for years.

Jacob stopped Harry as soon as he began, casting an angered look his way. "Don't even think about it, Harry! You don't want to go in there. Trust me. Just wait. This is our only chance, don't you see?" And Harry would calm down a moment later, listening again.

All that could be heard from the other room was the frightened screams from Gassy. Caitlin had become silent, praying now to a god she didn't believe in, but considered it with the exposure of something as evil as Binkman's image. Binkman, however, became quickly impatient with the noise.

"Screams!" He shouted, dark face contorting wildly with rage. "Screams, always! You children scream and scream!" And the pitter-patter of feet that shouldn't have had the proportion required to uphold the bulbous body brought Binkman quickly to Gassy and the vile face came directly before Gassy's to whisper. Gassy was so afraid that he fell silent, as a child would with the raising of a father's voice. "No more screams." And it was a knife that Binkman used, otherwise unseen due to the distraction of his visage. One clean slash across the hanging, wedged belly of the fat boy and intestines, innards, and other vital organs came parading out of his body to hang down a few feet to the ground. A pool of blood came rushing out, as fluid would from a popped water balloon, spilling artistically across the floor. To Gassy, this was no art, and to Caitlin, this was the moment to start her own fit of screaming again.

The sound drew Binkman's rearing stare and exponentially increasing anger. "They never stop!" He shouted, charging toward the girl.

Caitlin shrunk into as tight of a space as she could, but the walls in the corner wouldn't give and she was left to face the nearing monstrosity without a chance for resolve. Binkman's long, spidery fingers shot into her pigtailed hair and pulled her swiftly to her feet, holding the blade out to his side with his other hand.

"You should mind which crowds you associate yourself with, girl. Some of them can get you into a bit of trouble!" The vicious grin returned.

Caitlin moved into a stage that had her begging and pleading for her life. If she thought to believe in a god, even for a moment, in this moment she knew she was abandoned by it, or there was none at all.

Harry and Jacob pushed slowly from the door. They were starting to realize what may have happened in the other room. Jacob did all that he could. He rushed back toward one of the main doors connected to the room with the covered pool. All of the doors were chained and closed. Harry checked others to determine the same. There was no exit from the building, but for the way they came. At the other doors, however, they heard the voices of Barker and Crater on the other side, trying to devise a way in which to get it. They were seeming equally frustrated.

Binkman continued to hold the girl up by her hair, creating an immense amount of pain and pressure at her head. Blood rushed to Caitlin's feet as she hung, not wanting to move her body too much for the amount of pain such movements inflicted. Binkman began on her then as a fine sculptor would on a piece of clay, molding it to his desire.

The doctor started by pushing the sharp blade in right under her hairline. The girl screamed, reaching for the arm that controlled his cutting, trying to stop it. Her efforts only made his precision falter and the cuts became ragged as he followed the pattern of her hairline. Blood poured effortlessly from the new incisions at the head of the girl and soon after her entire body fell to the floor, with her still alive, eyes hidden behind the veil of blood, like some sort of hellish bride. The girl only fell to the floor because Binkman had, by this time, completely removed her pigtailed scalp and held it in hand. He dragged the crying, screaming, girl by her arm toward the corpse of her boyfriend, Gassy, who, after gargling, bloodied breaths, and blood loss ended him, hung pitifully from the window he was stuck in, like a pig on a hook.

Binkman left the girl about four feet from the dead boy before discarding the knife a short distance from her. The doctor snagged ahold of the hanging intestines and pulled them toward the girl like a sick clown's trick. Leaving one end of the gory string at her side, he started to shout. "Now we play a game!" And he did love games.

Binkman removed his top hat and cast it near the knife. The smell of copper filled the room as Binkman slapped the bloody scalp atop his now bare, asymmetrical head, wearing it like a sort of macabre hat. The two pigtails stood atop his head and now he gestured to the girl who continued to cry, continued to scream and waited for the oncoming of unconsciousness that never quite did.

"Swing, you floozy! Swing and we'll see how many times I trip, huh?" Binkman didn't take into account that the only one that knew of the replicated event was the one dead and stuck in the window frame. "Swing away!" And he cackled, jumping without her effort and landing on the grotesque, bloody innards on the floor, flattening them with each leap. "Swing!" He shouted again.

The girl finally relented, swinging only once the long, organic rope before she collapsed to her side, either unconscious or dead, or terrified so greatly that her soul fled for its own means of escape. Binkman stopped and watched the girl, shaking his head with disappointment, causing his long, pointed ears to bob back and forth. "Well, that wasn't as exciting as I'd hoped."

Binkman pulled the bloody scalp from his head and began to whistle, a sound that was distinctly different than the incessant screaming, a sound that drew both Harry and Jacob, then eventually the reencounter of Barker and Crater.

It was Barker that first noticed the blood at the window and he frantically demanded Crater to run and get someone. It was also Barker that saw Binkman's unnatural hand slip through the small space next to Gassy's trapped body, reach into Gassy's pocket and maneuver as if looking for something. Barker shot back, with a quick, fearful scream. Binkman's hand stopped just for a moment, then continued searching until it pulled a box of matches from the pyromaniac's jeans. And, like an eel back into its hole in the reef, the hand fled back into the darkness. The next thing that came creeping from the darkness was an intense heat, then flames. Barker retreated as the flames grew stronger.

Harry and Jacob smelled fire and they fled as far from the barricaded locker room as they could, Jacob paying mind to remove the chair from the door before heading as far from it as he could. Smoke started to fill the large room, which would require some time to become lethal. It was only a couple of minutes before the sounds of sirens could be heard outside and a large bolt-cutter tore away the locks and chains from the main doors, allowing the two boys freedom, both of which fled the smoky room in coughing fits. Harry and Jacob were taken in quickly by the fire-fighters, wrapped in blankets and ushered toward the emergency vehicles. As they moved, their eyes caught the heavy, disbelieving gazes of both Crater and Barker. Jacob met them with an equally distraught look. It then occurred to Jacob that Binkman didn't have an intention to simply scare the gang; he was going to kill them off. That became even more apparent later that evening.

Jacob sat with his mothers in the living room. They were trying to pull information out of him, but got nothing. Jacob insisted they watch the local news, which had been doing non-stop coverage of the fire in the school's pool house. The newscaster said that there was a confirmation of two bodies. Children were interviewed with their parents and the children admit that they knew Gassy was something of a pyromaniac. The news, in general, seemed to be suggesting that it was an accident, and by the time the fire was out, there would be no chance of retaining much for evidence. A firefighter on the scene admitted, "I've fought plenty of fires, but I've never quite seen one burning like this." And Jacob knew it was burning as it did because it was fueled by more than just gasoline—it was fueled by something purely evil, something Jacob had freed and something Jacob feared he wouldn't be able to stop.

That night, Jacob sat in bed completely awake, staring at his window. He felt guilty, as though he were the one that lit the fire himself. Jacob also knew that it wasn't merely the fire that ended the lives of both Caitlin and Gassy. He wondered quietly how terrible their death was and what mortifying circumstances transpired behind that barricaded door. He wondered if he should have opened it. It was too late.

"Counting sheep?" The harrowing voice spoke, as if near his ear.

Jacob shot up, looking back over his shoulder. Binkman sat near a corner, in a chair that his mothers used to use for reading him stories before bed. They'd never taken it away, and yet, now, it would never be the same.

"You killed them..." Jacob said, just above a whisper.

"I saved your life, Jacob. Harry's too! I thought you would be more..." And he paused, thinking of whatever unsettling word would best fit. "...grateful."

"I can't be grateful! You killed someone! Two people! Because of me!" And tears began to well in Jacob's eyes, his first real sign of emotion since the traumatic event.

Binkman sighed, shaking his head. His skin began to take on a sick, light blue tone, showing that his corruption was becoming worse. "If I wouldn't have intervened, you wouldn't be here right now. It's as simple as that. They intended to kill you, Jacob. It was my defense that kept you alive. Why be sympathetic to murderers?" He asked.

Jacob shook his head. "But they weren't murderers. They were just bullies. Punks." And Jacob thought about the story he heard, about Gassy killing that family. He sighed, turning his eyes to the window again.

"You know what happened, Jacob. No need to deny it. The world is a better place without them." And he sneered. "But, for the others..." He began.

Jacob looked back sharply, shaking his head. "The others?! No! I'm not helping you anymore! Haven't you done enough?"

Binkman stood, standing nearly to the ceiling now, and so much so that his hat, which had lost its rigidity, flopped to the side to accommodate his stance. "Then you don't want me to save Harry's life?" He asked once again, alluding to the unknown, an unknown which caught Jacob's attention.

"W-What?" Jacob asked, confused.

"Crater and Barker are descending on Harry's home as we speak, intending to get a little bit of revenge. I shouldn't stop them?" Binkman inquired, contorting his appalling face questioningly.

"What are they doing?" Jacob rose from his bed to his feet, still in his clothes from earlier in the day.

"They're going to burn his house down. Kill all of them. Innocent, innocent people. You want to protect these people?" Binkman asked.

Jacob shook his head. "We have to do something! We can't let that happen!" He shouted.

"No, no we can't. Then, shall I? You should probably call your friend and tell him to leave as quickly as he can! There isn't much time, boy." And his face became sinister, and the very essence of it.

Jacob nodded, rushing out to the living room to steal Ima's phone as he headed out the door. He was met with no interference, as his parents had made it to bed by that hour and had no reason to assume that Jacob would rush off in the night. Outside, he quickly dialed Harry. Harry's mother answered, seemingly about to go to bed herself, noticeably so by the irritation in her voice.

"Hello?" The woman asked, quickly.

"Evening Mrs. Grigg." He said, in a rushed, single breath. "May I please speak with Harry? It's Jacob." Jacob hoped for her cooperation.

"Jacob, do you know what time it is? Shouldn't you be in bed?" Mrs. Grigg asked.

"Mrs. Grigg, I'm really sorry! I just need to talk to Harry, just for a moment. Please?" He begged. "It's about a school project!" He added, lying, hoping it would convince her.

Mrs. Grigg begrudgingly accepted the plea and went downstairs to hand the phone off to Harry. Jacob could hear her instructions to her son as she handed the phone to him, "Don't be long Harry, you hear? It's late and you need to get to bed."

When Harry received the phone, he asked, obviously confused by the call, and immediately anxious. "H-Hello?"

Jacob wasted no time. "Harry, you need to get out of the house! You need to leave right now! Barker and Crater are on there and they're going to burn the place down with you in it!" He shouted, word after word, already running down the street.

"They're what?!" Harry exclaimed. "I need to tell my parents!" And he began up.

"No! No, don't Harry! Listen, I have an idea. Go outside and get their attention. Get them to follow you to the highway where you shoved Barker!" Jacob instructed, hoping that Harry would accept. He was worried he wouldn't, knowing Harry's anxiety, fearing he would be brash.

"Shouldn't I call the cops?!" Harry already moved out of his room and toward the front door, peering out the windows to hope to get a look of the boys.

"It'll be too late by the time they arrive, Harry! Get them away from your house before it's too late! Meet me there, Harry! Get them to follow you!" And Jacob hung up, rushing toward the rendezvous spot.

Harry moved around nervously before pulling his shoes on. "I should call the cops. This is dumb. This is how people end up dead." Harry said to himself, dealing with a long day that was just getting longer. He went out the door quietly and searched carefully around the house. It didn't take long before Harry found the culprits.

Both Crater and Barker stood between the homes, in the same place where Brain had been caught alone, Crater already pouring gasoline beneath one of the living room's windows. Barker slapped Crater at the sight of Harry.

"Hey! It's him!" Barker shouted to Crater. "Out a little late, buddy! You're going to miss the fireworks. This is what you get for killing Pete and Caitlin, you sick fuck!"

Harry shook his head. "Well..." He looked over his shoulder, trying to survey the roads and which direction he would run to meet Jacob beside the highway. "...I'm not going to even be in the house! So you're wasting your time!" And with the last statement, he took a couple of steps back, preparing to flee.

Barker smirked and pulled a pocket knife, flipping the keen blade out threateningly. "Then I'll gut you in the street!" Barker looked back to Crater, whispering out of earshot of Harry. "Finish the job here. I'll get this fucktard." And Barker started after Harry, whom was already beginning in the direction of the highway and the forest beside it.

Crater was there alone, feeling less inspired to commit the act and also knowing that he was going to burn down the home with only Harry's parents in it. The gasoline was lugged to Harry's home in a large, rubber 3 gallon bucket, open on the top. Crater looked down to what was about half of the potential volume left, reconsidering what he was doing, even saying to himself, "I don't think I can do this."

"I can." The voice came from behind, as fingers curled over Crater's acne-ridden head, fingers which were long enough to grip almost the entirety of it, like a ball, shoved Crater's face down into the bucket and held him in the volatile liquid.

Crater shook and screamed, but only could do so into the highly toxic fluid. Not a single scream left him in a way to rouse neighbors and instead channeled into unsympathetic bubbles rising in the small spaces on both sides of his drowning face. Binkman continued to hold him under with a smile.

"Where you're going, little one, the fires rage forever." And he cackled, pressing with all of his force until Crater stopped fighting and gave in to death. Another was delivered.

Doctor Binkman looked to the house, becoming visibly saddened that such an effort had been made for vengeance, yet it hadn't come to fruition quite as the heathens had hoped. Fire, as Binkman knew, was the best means of destroying evidence and obscuring blame. Binkman lifted the sopping, drowned boy from the shallow pool of gasoline and shoved him against the house, like kindling for a fire. Binkman searched Crater's pockets until he found matches, as he did on Gassy.

"Children should learn that fire is not a toy." And he smirked, proud of himself. He struck the match and tossed it to the boy's head, which was saturated in the heavy gasoline, and the entire base of the house began ablaze, following the pattern which the boys had outlined around it.

Harry ran for what seemed like forever. Barker followed after him, adrenaline and anger pushing him threateningly forward, with only one plan: Kill Harry and make him pay for what he did. This time there was nothing that was going to stop him. The time for games, for mere hurt, were over, expressed even more so by Barker's command that Crater finish the job back at his house. Barker wanted everything in ashes once and for all.

Harry eventually reached Jacob, who was waiting near the road. Cars and semis flew by, seemingly careless of the running children. At that speed, nothing mattered. Jacob waved for Harry to follow him into the forest. Barker was only a short distance behind them as the two turned jointly and headed back into the forest Jacob had fled through to escape Barker the first time. Harry was naturally faster than Jacob, but he paced himself to Jacob's lead, shouting occasionally, "He's getting closer! We need to move faster! Where are we going?!" The urgency in Harry's voice decried both fear of Barker, fear that Crater wasn't with him, and immense worry for his family. He hoped Crater was just further behind. Of course, Harry didn't know the truth of the matter: his parents were set ablaze in their sleep, helpless to escape, now being doused by a very busy fire department.

Jacob rushed as quickly as he could, trying to remember the direction he ran in before. Little landmarks were seen here and there, revealed by the grace of the night which seemed to allow the evening's full moon to shine occasionally through the high canopy above. Deeper and deeper they went until Harry started to give out. "I can't! I can't keep running!" And he was slowing down, though Barker was not.

"Move, Harry! Move! We're almost there!" Jacob only hoped that was the case, but it proved to be true as the ravine and the stone well came into view. "There!" Jacob pointed.

Jacob and Harry rushed beside the well and waited. Barker arrived only a moment later. Harry simply stood there, unsure of what was going to happen now, or what it was Jacob had in mind.

Huffing and puffing, trying to catch his breath, Barker watched the two boys in rage. "Give up, huh? Decide there's no chance? I'm going to carve you two fuckers up so bad they won't ever find you!" And he smiled sinisterly. However, it was the smile that appeared behind him, first a sort of floating, Cheshire grin that spread behind Barker's ears. Jacob's eyes widened and Harry backed slightly toward the well as Binkman's image faded into view to fill the space around the floating smile. A second later, Barker's approach was stifled by the stiff latching of Binkman's arms to his body, wrapping around him once, then twice, as if his arms were fluid tentacles instead of arms and Binkman wobbled his awkward, destroyed body toward the well.

Harry rushed back, seeing Binkman for the first time, the one thing responsible for the violent screams and murder back at the school's pool house. He couldn't believe his eyes. Jacob, however, watched in a mixed awe, feeling both terrible and resolved, knowing he would live another day. It wasn't over.

The doctor continued forth until he reached the open well, arms untangling from the screaming boy, who'd by now dropped the knife with his surprising detainment.

"Let me go! Let me go!" Barker screamed, over and over again, kicking his legs and squirming as violently as he could.

The doctor firmly gripped the back of Barker's neck and held him over the opening of the well. Barker's legs did all that they could to try and spread in a way that would prevent him from falling, should Binkman let go, but the doctor lowered him into the well in such a way that his feet would only contact the inner walls of the stony prison, offering no chance to stop the inevitable.

"Bad boys go all the way to hell. Enjoy the ride, little one." Binkman whispered, shoving Barker down violently. Barker spread himself, gripping what stones he could as he was pushed at, hands being cut and damaged with each shove and attempt at surviving. Binkman was relentless, arms moving up and down from the hole like machine pistons, pushing, punching, and shoving Barker down. Jacob and Harry moved near to each other as they watched the horrible event and heard the haunting screams. Binkman's work looked like a desperate person trying to overfill a garbage bag, or someone trying to stuff too much food down a garbage disposal. Eventually, Barker could hold on no longer and his strength gave. He fell endlessly into the well, only able to see the dark, terrifying face of the doctor as he went down, down into the stone prison.

Jacob whispered something to Harry then as Binkman leaned over the well, dusting his hands as he stared down into it.

"Now, only to finish my job with the one from at the hospital, boys. I should have killed him when I had the chance!" Binkman turned slowly, speaking of Brain. However, when Binkman turned only halfway, both Jacob and Harry rushed forward and shoved the large, corrupted figure with all of their might.

Binkman's eyes shot wide and his terrible maw consumed his entire face as he screamed aloud. He fell back, losing his balance, still entirely unused to his ever changing body, and tripped over the edge of the stone well. Binkman's hand shot out to grip the stone edge, but the one place to which he reached was the same place from which the stone had fallen in Jacob's first visit. Binkman met no helping-hand as gravity took a hold of him as it had Barker moments prior, shoving him less violently into the pit from which he escaped, down into the darkness of the well and back from where he'd originally came.

Suddenly, there was an immense silence. It was as if the entire forest stopped for a moment: every creature, every jostling bit of brush just stopped in the single swift moment that the doctor fell into the well. The world itself moved in a sort of slow motion, being manipulated by confusion, anxiety, relief, fear and a multitude of other consuming emotions. Harry looked to Jacob and Jacob back to Harry. Harry was unsure of what had happened, with it all so swift, so sudden and so unexpected. He didn't know what that thing was that they shoved down the well, but he was aware of its malevolence from the moment it appeared. He, too, was happy Binkman was gone. Unfortunately, Harry remained unaware of the work that the doctor finished for Barker and Crater, so relief was permissible, vowing, eventually, to yield to extreme sorrow. Harry could have considered getting his parents out, as he suggested to begin with, but who was to say that things wouldn't have turned out as badly? None. It was over now.

Jacob's whisper to Harry before pushing Binkman was a simple, "We need to shove him into the well. Trust me." Jacob knew that Binkman had to go. The doctor desired only to kill the children and it was his violence that created an escalatory spiral that twisted on and on out of control, demanding vengeance from both parties. He could not be allowed to remain, to finish off Brain who'd already been in a state of horrifying shock and left in the hospital. He couldn't be allowed to be "free" in this world, with his capacity. Jacob assumed he'd only seen a small percentage of what Doctor Binkman was actually capable of and he cared not to see the rest. The silence, the slowness, all broke as Harry looked over into the deep, dark well, to the chasm that seemed to go on forever. He turned and spoke, questioningly, as he usually had with Jacob.

"What now?" Was Harry's question.

Jacob quirked a bit of a smile and shrugged. It was the first smile he'd shown in some time. That moment of happiness was sapped away the moment he saw the image that rose behind Harry, who was still standing by the well, oblivious of it.

Jacob shouted, pointing, "Harry! Look out!"

The figure that rose was Binkman, his long, disproportioned, reaching arm slipping over Harry's shoulder. Harry turned beneath it to see the grotesque creature, sopping wet with blood and a sort of thick, viscous slime. Harry screamed and tried to pull away, but it was too late. The doctor, who was a complete monster at this point, totally consumed by the evilness of the mask he donned, dragged Harry down into the well and into the dark eternity. Jacob began to approach as Harry fell away, but stopped when he was gone, knowing a similar danger existed for himself.

In utter shock and disbelief, Jacob stepped back and away from the well. He was too lost for tears. His heart was too broken for words. He was absolutely alone. Binkman took his best friend into that dark prison with him, leaving Jacob to answer for the terrible events. There was nothing left. Jacob collapsed to his knees in the brush beyond the well. He bathed in the light of the unforgiving moon. He thought he could hear the whispers of the terrible doctor deep within his mind, perhaps echoing from the prison below, deathly voice repelling from tree to tree.

"If I will remain in this prison forever, then you will be mine. You will be everything I could not be. I will destroy you from the inside out. I will undo your every bit. I will reconstruct you to destroy you again. You are forever my thing and my muse. You are my little Binky. Forever, forever you're my agony."

RETURN TO THE TABLE OF CONTENTS
The Wheezing Man

"Whoooa! We're halfway there! Whoa-oh! Livin' on a prayer!" The car had turned into the Hollywood Palladium, blaring with the righteous anthem from Bon Jovi. The Quinn family was on its way up North to Columbus, Ohio, after Jefferson Quinn received a well-paying executive job in the region. However, the tale of their journey, one that seemed as absolutely normal as any relocation event would call for, took a harrowing twist somewhere between one location and the next. Something called to them; something worse than the small family could have ever expected. At the end of their journey, there was no promise of success and fortune, but instead awaited something older and more terrible than they would know existed—a storm of events that would change the world forever. In this storm, the Quinn family would arrive at the very eye.

"What in the world is that?" The youngest Quinn, Bradley, pointed to a strange figure staked crudely into the ground, only a few yards behind the sign denoting the family had arrived in a small town called Glencoe, Kentucky.

Jefferson and his wife, Miranda, followed the pointing finger before the image zoomed off and behind the car, seeming almost as if it were moving away from them once in their mirrors. The image was that of a sort of scarecrow or effigy of some sort, made mostly of straw. A white, long-sleeved shirt, bright and new in the springtime sun, showed that there was some care by someone in the locale to maintain the figure. What seemed strangest about it, causing a deserving second look, was that the head of the creature was merely a ring of curved straw hay, leaving a wide, open circle in the center of what would have been the figure's face. Miranda shuddered as she turned away, before glancing up to the sky, which had become treacherous and unstable.

"Jeff, do you think we should pull over? We're in a tornado watch and I'm thinking this is going to get worse." Miranda was from Oklahoma and knew a thing or two about terrible tornadoes. Now, the sky was taking on an ominous green tone, almost always a telltale sign that the dark clouds overhead were interested in beginning their descent. Miranda always thought of it as she thought of someone sick and nauseous; when the green came on, one should fear what promised to spew forth.

Jefferson turned his eyes to the clouds himself, driving down the straight, unchanging road, minding only the signs that suggested he slowed down. For what, however, he was unsure. There were no people outside. The buildings were as well-kept as the shirt donned by the straw figure at the town's threshold, but not one of the buildings seemed to be alive with lights or inhabitants. It was the second that Jefferson had made up his mind to stop that the radio came through, making his decision seem best.

"...there is a tornado warning issued for the following counties: Boone, Campbell, Carroll, Gallatin, Grant... please seek immediate cover in a designated shelter..." And the broadcast went on to repeat itself. Jeff and Miranda looked at each other, then back to their children, Bradley, who was well aware of what was happening, and Chelsie, who'd been busy bopping her head while listening to her music and staring at the sky. Chelsie didn't need to receive the message to know that things were getting bad enough to warrant a stop. Jeff pulled into the post office parking lot, which was riddled with what seemed to be the majority of the town's cars. The sign visible near the entrance suggested that the rather large, brick building was a tornado shelter.

Jeff looked back to the kids and began his direction. "Alright, I need you guys to grab only your suitcase and nothing else. I don't want to be out here any longer than..." And he paused. Though Bradley was listening intently, Jeff's older child, Chelsie, a teenager these days and beginning her rebellious phase, was simply staring at him, while the long, white cords of her earbuds dangled around her head. In the silence, Jeff could hear that the music was still blaring into her fragile ears, but the girl never listened to his advice to turn it down. "Excuse me?" Jeff's eyes went wide with impatience. The look brought Chelsie to pull the earbuds from her ears and listen, as frustrated as she could.

Jeff continued. "Grab your suitcase and we're going right into the post office. It looks like this is a shelter. We'll just wait it out here until the storm passes, alright? Hopefully it won't be too long." And with that Jeff opened the driver's side door, popped the trunk and made his way to help the others retrieve their luggage.

Miranda and the others followed suit, waiting as each bag was handed their way. Inevitably, the sky tore open and rain started pouring down, almost all at once, drenching the family within moments and speeding up their efforts to get inside.

When each of them had their bags and the car was locked up, the sopping family ushered itself toward the doors of the post office. The front of the building was lined with large windows, which seemed a terrible choice for a tornado shelter, but Jeff assured himself (as no one was visible through the windows in the main lobby) that the sheltered area was somewhere downstairs, inside of the otherwise solid building. The door was unlocked and each of them filed in, dripping down onto the linoleum floors.

Jeff called out, hoping for a response and some direction. There were no signs, despite there being so many cars, directing where the best place for cover would have been. "Hello? Is anyone here? There's a tornado warning! We're just passing through, can someone help us out?" And there was nothing for sound but the pounding of rain outside and the accompanying roar of thunder.

Miranda glanced Jeff's way before trying to discern the best route herself. "Awfully quiet." She'd been to her share of shelters and almost each of them were busy with the sound of impatient children or crying babies. There wasn't a peep in response to their inquiry.

Thunder crashed hard and close and it drew the family to move instinctively away from the fragile glass windows and toward the counters where mail was usually shuffled to and fro. Jeff pulled his suitcase along by the handle as he moved around the side of the counter, to a large, metal door that read "basement/package storage."

"Miranda, I think this may be it." And Jeff gestured for the others to move along with him. He placed his hand on the metal knob and turned until the door opened. Desperately in need of an oiling, the hinges of the door screamed as the heavy door rotated on them. Yet, it wasn't the sound of the door that caught Jefferson's attention when the stairs behind them were revealed. Instead, it was a drone, like that which sounded much like a large hive of bees, busy at work. The sound, however, fell away the second the creaking hinges hit their high, climactic note, and then there was silence.

Jefferson looked back to Miranda, who seemed oblivious of the sound, causing him to ask. "Did you hear the—" But another voice came from below.

"Something we can help you with, sir?" The voice was male and aged. The sound caused Jeff's head to whip back toward the parted door, to find the source.

An older man, in a fine, white shirt and white pants stood at the bottom of the stairs, while Jeff watched intensely. The man at the stairs' base seemed more frustrated than welcoming.

"Y-Yes, my family and I were just passing through your town here and a tornado warning just came through on the radio. There were a bunch of cars outside and a sign near the door that indicated this place was a shelter? We were hoping to wait out the weather, if you don't mind." And Jeff certainly hoped, despite the man's attitude, that he wouldn't have a problem with their stay.

It was then that another man came behind the first, then a third behind the second, until, eventually, there was a group of about ten people, all dressed in white, all curious and uncertain of the arrival of the family at the top of the stairs. Jeff and his family remained huddled where they were, wet and curious of what was unfolding. Jeff's first thoughts made him consider that he'd wandered into some sort of cult, with each of them dressed as they were. Of course, cults, he thought, were things that rich, bored people put together, not rural towns in Kentucky, right off of the main highway. For this reason and a few others, he considered anything else that would have called for them having dressed all the same way, such as some sort of other religious calling or even each of them being employees of the same company. Jeff recalled seeing similar dress in spas, but, again, Glencoe, Kentucky didn't scream "great spa location." Instead of commenting on the arrival of the group, Jeff remained silent.

"You may stay, but understand that we'll be locking down this facility for the remainder of this event. No one will be leaving." The old man said, warningly.

Suddenly the storm outside seemed like a less threatening situation than what was being suggested by the man and his group at the base of the stairs. Something about them didn't seem quite right. Still, they didn't seem welcoming of Jeff's family, hardly extending any sort of open hospitality. Instead, they seemed troubled and uncertain of outsiders.

Jeff spoke for his family, despite seeing his wife's concern. "That's not a problem. We'll stay just as long as we need to. We're on our way to Columbus, but we have plenty of things to hold us over and some food."

The old man responded, his bright blue eyes losing their shade as he stepped toe-to-step at the base of the stairs. "You won't be needing it."

Jeff cocked his head, curiously. "Won't be needing... what? The food?"

And the group in white turned and began stepping back down the hall. The slant of the ceiling, which architecturally followed the angle of the stairs, caused the group to slip from sight almost immediately. When they were gone, Jeff looked back to his family.

"Well, they're all sort of strange." Jeff said in a whisper. "But I don't think we have much of a choice at this point, do we?"

Miranda bit her lip as she usually did when concerned. Bradley took on his mother's concerned look and imitated her best he could. Chelsie, however, was as indifferent as usual.

"Whatever. It's some Podunk town in Kentucky. What do you expect, Dad?" And Chelsie didn't mind whispering, partially because she was young and reckless, but also because the music was playing in her ear again, not allowing her to realize how loud she was being.

Jefferson and the other Quinn's weren't allowed much time to decide, as the events that unfolded a moment later made their decision for them, suggesting they'd be sticking out the storm with the company of the strange group below. Large, metal shutters began moving over the glass windows and the door near the post office's entrance. The squeaking and creaking of rubbing metal and the groaning buzz of struggling motors trying to deploy the metal covering filled the room. Second by second, the family watched as the storm and the outside, plagued with heavy rain and threatening clouds disappeared, masked by the shutters until they locked into place at the bottom of the windows. The room was absolutely dark. It drew Jeff's eyes to the stairwell again, where a dim light was on at the base. There, he saw a new figure standing where the odd group had only minutes prior. It was a young girl, with long, straight hair, a white dress and a white bow in her hair. She seemed to be innocently watching the family in the darkness above, with her hands clasped together in front of her, her head tilted down shyly, but her bright eyes, blue like that of the man, high and curious. A light flickered on in the room above, where the Quinn family stood awkwardly, but it faded a second later, as would happen with an over-energized bulb that burnt out the second it was lit. Jeff finally waved for his family to descend and took a hold of Bradley's suitcase to ensure he didn't go down the stairs with it.

The family followed Jefferson's lead. Step by step, Jefferson moved closer to the base of the stairs and the little girl that waited near it.

Mildly, Jefferson said, "Hello."

The little girl smiled for a split second and then again fell stoic. She responded with an equally quick, "Hello."

The presence of the girl, though as odd as any of the other events concerning the townspeople, seemed less concerning. "I'm Jeff. What's your name?" Asking simple questions, as one would a young child.

"I'm Fallon." And the articulation of the "a's" and o's" in the girl's name showed her missing front teeth.

"Nice to meet you, Fallon." A few more steps. "This is my wife Miranda, my daughter Chelsie and my son, Bradley." Jeff introduced each of his family members and each responded as was trademark of them. Miranda smiled and nodded with a whispered "hello," Chelsie nodded her head to the girl, seeming more wary of her, and Bradley gave a small wave.

Fallon turned as they neared the bottom of the stairs and ran down the long, brick hall. Many of the other townspeople, in their white outfits, stood throughout the hallway, an area that Jeff assumed was the sheltered area of the post office. The Quinn's watched the inhabitants as curiously as they were watched themselves. Jeff did his best to make everyone at ease, with a smile and a short wave to those at the far side of the hall. He then turned back to his family for the parental briefing.

"Alright. Listen up. I expect you two to be courteous and kind no matter what. Be polite, show good manners and just try to keep yourself entertained until this storm passes and we can get back on the road. I'm hoping it won't take too long, alright? So just work with me on this one and I'll make it worth your while, alright?" Jeff often used rewards to keep his children in line. It was one of the most effective methods he'd utilized, and the effectiveness was shown quickly as the two children began scanning their brains for what it was that would be a worthwhile offering for the short peace treaty with their father. Chelsie moved her suitcase against the wall and sank to sit beside it. Jefferson placed his son's suitcase near to his sister's and Bradley sat near to the luggage the same. Jeff stepped over to his wife and took her in his arms. He whispered into her ear, trying to settle her obvious worry about their fellow attendees.

"Everything's alright, Mir. This shouldn't be long." And though Jeff had been saying that for some time, ate up without question by the children, Miranda didn't seem to buy it.

"They locked the building down. I'm hoping it's not going to be a problem getting out of here when we need to." Miranda seemed uncomfortable about her lack of control. She looked quickly over Jeff's shoulder, to look at the group that was still watching the newly arrived family as if they were some sort of disturbance. "The people are off, Jeff." Her words were barely a whisper, not caring to make things any more uncomfortable than they were. "I don't even hear a radio, do you?" She lifted her brows with the question.

Jeff shook his head. He thought it was strange they didn't hear a radio, something most shelters had to assure people understood what was going on. Jeff pulled his cell phone from his pocket, and tried opening a weather application, but the thick walls of the post office's basement seemed to block any reception. Still, the sounds and roar of rolling thunder could be heard through the walls.

"This is what we'll do..." As he put his cell phone away and returned his hands to his wife's hips. "When the storm sounds like it's dying down, we'll just ask to leave. They won't keep us here against our will or anything. And I doubt any of them want to stay here in this hallway for longer than they have to." And Jeff smiled, reassuringly. "Everything's going to be just fine. How about you make something up for the kids and I'll try to see if I can talk with a few of these people, huh?"

Miranda smirked, looking over Jeff's shoulder again. A door at the end of the hall, which wore the sign that read "storage" opened for the old man that spoke earlier to squeeze out of it, though there was plenty of room for him to open the door widely. He opened the door as little as he could, just enough for his body to slip out into the hallway, all the while watching the Quinn family. He closed the door behind him as soon as he was through.

"Alright. Be careful." Clearly showing she wasn't sure about any of the others. Miranda sat down beside her children and began working at something in her suitcase.

Meanwhile, Jeff turned to the others in white. He mentally prepared himself for the weirdness that could have come from trying to reach out to the lot, but hoped that the encounter would set things straight. He stepped across the hallway confidently, until he noticed the majority of them started standing up as he approached. Jeff slowed himself and lifted a hand to promise he came in peace, as an old explorer would to an aboriginal people. As would happen from any ancient tribe approached by a diplomat of a greater civilization, the old man came forth as the leader and defender of the apprehensive group in white. Which one of the two parties was actually greater was harder to determine.

"I just wanted to thank you for taking us in. It was starting to get bad out there. We really appreciate it, all of us. I'm Jefferson Quinn, by the way, I don't think I got your name?" To the old man.

The old man watched Jefferson for a while and simply nodded in place of a handshake. "Ernest. Ernest Goldman." And the old man paused, staring Jefferson cold in the eyes while ignoring his lifted hand.

Jeff lowered his hand awkwardly, wiping it against his pant leg as many people did when rejected a simple handshake, or one was missed. He carried on, otherwise unabated, trying to make small talk. "This seems like a nice town." Though it didn't. "We were just passing through. I was offered a position out in Columbus, Ohio. I hear it's a nice area. Have you ever been?"

Ernest continued to stare before speaking aloud in a slow monotone. "Listen, Jefferson... We're not particularly fond of people we don't know. We're a close people here, with similar values. We're here now in this hall together because we have no other choice. Your family came and here you are."

Jeff quirked a brow, a little offended then. "We only stopped because there's a potential for a tornado out there, Mr. Goldman. I'm sorry if that's inconvenient, but this building is designated as a tornado shelter and it is a government building, isn't it?" His reasons for staying didn't need to be defended, but Ernest's harsh words wouldn't stand unquestioned by someone like Jefferson.

Ernest lifted his chin in a sort of primitive, human response to express superiority and strength, as well as indignation for any sort of behavior. As he prepared to speak, the hallway shook subtly, as if the earth quaked around them; the very earth they were in, for protection and sanctity.

The whole group looked around as the lights flickered. Miranda stood on the other side of the hall, calling out instinctively to her husband.

"Jeff?" Miranda called, causing Jeff to step away from Ernest, who, unlike the rest of the group, just stared through the shaking earth, that which ended only a moment after it began.

Across the hall, back at his family, Jeff took Miranda into his arms. "It's fine. I'm sure it was thunder from a nearby strike." Whatever it was, it seemed worse than thunder, and his words sated only the children. Miranda was unsure. Jeff lowered his voice to more of a whisper. "I think it's best we just keep to ourselves until this thing is over. Those people don't seem interested in having us for too long."

Miranda sighed. "Hopefully we won't be here for too long, then. These things don't usually last too long."

Chelsie was sitting against the wall, watching her parents throughout the exchange. Jeff and Miranda didn't notice, but their teenage girl was spying on them, and obviously so, because for once, by her will, one earbud was out of her ear and hanging down over her shoulder.

Chelsie spoke up, hushed herself. "These people are creepy. Cult creepy. What if they want to sacrifice us or something?"

The suggestion brought terror to Chelsie's younger brother, Bradley, who immediately looked up to his parents with wide, fearful eyes. "Are they going to sacrifice us?" Bradley, who was smart for his age, but still too much a child to understand the subtleties of discretion, spoke with the rasp of a whisper, but the volume that only an immediate, desperate fear evoked.

Jefferson nearly scowled at his daughter, upset by her brashness. "Chelsie! They'll do no such thing. Stop scaring your brother." Jeff spoke in a scolding tone, soft, usually reserved for public places, like a supermarket or a church. He then looked over to Bradley, who was still waiting for answers. "Bradley, there's nothing to worry about. We're safe here. Just a little while longer and we'll be on our way, alright? Just stay busy with..." And Jeff gestured to the newest portable video game device he was suckered into buying for his son, which rested at Bradley's lap. "...that." He finished.

Bradley sighed, glancing off to the odd party in white, at the other side of the hall. Most of them resumed speaking to one another, suddenly buzzing with whispers after the hall shook. The little girl, Fallon, returned Bradley's look, offering him a smile, showing again that she was the most diplomatic, accepting person in the party. Bradley, however, didn't return the smile, but instead became flustered, blushed and lifted his game in front of his eyes.

An hour passed. There were more occasional quakes, each one drawing a discontenting glance about the stone structure, some in fear that the walls and ceilings would crumble down on them. Jefferson rationalized the shaking in the only way he could: that it was heavy thunder, but the sounds outside seemed to be calming.

Fallon eventually sat somewhere between the group in white and the Quinn's, drawing in a small sketchbook one of the group members had afforded her. The neutrality of her position brought the motherly Miranda toward her. She squatted near the focused little girl.

"What are you drawing, Fallon?" Miranda asked with a pleasant smile.

Fallon brought the pad close to her chest, shyly, as any child would when questioned about an incredible work in progress. "Nothing." Sheepishly.

Miranda canted her head, gently laughing. "Oh, com'on. You don't want to show me? I promise I'll love it."

Fallon watched Miranda suspiciously, but cracked to Miranda's solemnity in the suggestion that she'd approve of the work. Fallon extended the pad to Miranda and Miranda accepted it, still holding her smile. However, Miranda's smile faded as she saw the drawing.

The drawing depicted a small girl in a dress and a bow, whom Miranda assumed was Fallon, holding the hand of a tall, unusually slender figure. It wore clothes similar in style to those of the rest of the group, denoted by the placement of buttons at the shirt, but normality dissented at the figure's face. The face wore slanted, evil-looking eyes, and a mouth almost the size of the entirety of its face. The mouth was a twisted, open maw, seeming to scream relentlessly to the observer—a stark contrast to the vibrant smile drawn on Fallon's face in the image. Still, the groaning figure was hardly the worst of the artwork. Below the feet of Fallon and the unusual figure was the ground, depicted by a wide, arching line. Below it were two groups of stick figures, many dressed in white, unshaded clothes, while on the other side there were four figures, each obviously representing members of the Quinn family. Below all of them was a giant mouth open, creating a chasm that was swallowing the entire group whole. Miranda's hands began to shake.

"Do you like it?" Fallon asked, smiling to Miranda.

Miranda made a promise, so she kept it despite being horrified by the girl's picture. "I-It's... really something, Fallon. Very interesting picture for a young girl to be drawing. Who..." And she paused, placing a finger onto the paper to point to the groaning figure beside Fallon in the drawing. "...is this?"

There wasn't much time to answer before a sharp pounding could be heard at the peak of the stairs. The echo shot through the room above before cascading into the slightly cracked door above. Jefferson stood immediately, then Miranda, followed by the rest of the group in white, which mostly huddled around the storage room door. The pounding was accompanied by a muffled sound, which almost sounded like a person's voice, but the distortion in the mix of what must have been a calming storm and the metal shutters that fell over the windows made it unclear; it could have been the wind. Regardless, the question was there and it needed to be answered.

Jefferson, only for a moment, looked back to the group in white. He immediately began for the stairs, shouting out to his family. "I'll be right back. I'm going to see what's going on!"

Miranda rose, placing the drawing back on Fallon's lap. Fallon herself became uneasy and returned to the group in white while the old man, Ernest, followed Jeff toward the stairs.

"Be careful!" Miranda cautioned to her husband, acknowledged with a distracted nod as Jefferson went up the stairs ahead of the group's leader. When they were both at the peak of the stairs, Jefferson opened the door fully and listened closely to the beating at the windows and what could now be clearly discerned as an adult male's voice shouting, "Help! Help! Please, oh God, let us in!"

Jefferson's eyes went wide and he rushed the shutter that covered the door of the post office. He tugged relentlessly, but the metal covering didn't budge. Jefferson shouted out over the noise. "Hold on just a second! Hold on!" Trying to reassure the voice on the other side. Suddenly more voices sprung up, those of a woman and even maybe a child. Jefferson continued to pull, but nothing gave. Jeff glanced back desperately to Ernest. "Help me! I need to get this open! There are people out there!"

Ernest merely watched, remaining near the open door to the basement. He didn't say anything in response, nor did he move to assist Jefferson in his effort to help the people outside, stranded in the storm.

Jefferson paused for a moment, in disbelief. "Are you not going to open this for them? There are people out there Ernest, people like you and I! Open the shutters. We need to let them in."

Ernest's body shook softly from his place and he quickly shook his head, denying the request silently.

"Ernest!" Jefferson shouted over the cries of the small assembly outside, banging on the windows.

"They are the wicked. They are the unbelievers. They are where they deserve to be." Ernest said, harrowingly, with a sort of uncompassionate, glazed-over look in his eyes.

"W-What?" Jefferson's own eyes went wide as he turned, resting his back against the metal shutters, able to feel the pulse of the desperate beatings on the other side of the door rattle through his body, making the fear beyond his own personal safety inside more real with each successive blow to the glass outside. "Open the shutters!" Jefferson shouted.

The commotion stirred those below and one by one, the Quinn family emerged, nearing their patriarch, while the others in white remained near the steadfast Ernest.

Miranda asked, worriedly. "What's going on, Jeff?"

Jeff pointed a condemning finger in the direction of Ernest and his group. "They won't open the shutters! There are people out there, people that may die if we don't help them! And they won't do anything!"

Miranda, Chelsie and Bradley all looked to the small group. Bradley watched as Fallon stepped back carefully and slipped back into the door to the basement, away from the rest of the group, a moment after she gestured for Bradley to keep quiet with a lone finger over her lips. Then, suddenly, a siren droned outside of the post office, its long, warbled tone saturating the town beyond their haven, reminiscent of an old World War II nuclear warning.

Jeff turned around, looking at the metal shutters over the door. The beating on the other side stopped the second the siren began. Jeff looked back to Ernest. "What is that siren for? Is that the tornado siren?" Jeff's stomach sank. Still, there was very little sound beyond the shutters. Even the storm seemed to almost die out completely.

Ernest shook his head solemnly. "That is not a warning for weather, Jefferson Quinn. That is the signal fire that shows that the time of reckoning has begun. We will witness it together."

The entire group in white began clapping their hands in a cheerful applause. Members of the group hugged one another and pat each other on the backs. Meanwhile, the Quinn family watched in awe of what was transpiring.

Chelsie spoke up, tugging on her father's sleeve. "I told you! I knew something was wrong with these people."

Bradley merely stood behind his mother, watching the exchange with the group in white. While most of them cheered, Ernest continued to stare at the family, with a stoic, stone gaze that was unrelenting. His stare twitched as the sound of helpless, desperate people beating on the windows sounded again, only this time, their cries were much louder and thick with terror.

"It's getting hard to see! Oh, open the door! Open the door! It's everywhere around us! It's hard to breath! Please, oh, please open the door! Open the door!"

Jefferson turned, pulling on the shutters over the door again. He cried out, "Miranda, Chelsie, Bradley, pull! Pull, we need to get these doors open!" And they all worked together to try and save the stranded people outside.

Ernest laughed softly. "There's no saving them now, Jefferson Quinn. He's come for them. He will have them. He will have all of us."

In unison, the group in white chanted, "Consume us! Consume us! Consume us!"

Jefferson didn't bother to look back to the queer group. He pulled with all of his might but the shutter didn't give—or until the motors that deployed them earlier started humming, turned on, and started suddenly drawing the shutters in reverse. The Quinn family stepped back, and the group in white stopped with their unsettling chants.

As the shutters rose, Ernest spun quickly back. "Who's opening the doors?!" Ernest pointed to the basement door. "Fallon! Fallon is not here! Go down there, close the shutters at once!" And reacting to Ernest's order, two members nodded and ran quickly down the stairs, where it could be assumed the controls for the shutters were.

The Quinn family backed away from the opening shutters in unison, standing near one of the cluttered, envelope-ridden post office desks. The feet of three people, a man, a woman and a child could be seen first. The pounding ensued. A little girl lowered to her knees to peer at the group beneath the rising metal shutters. Behind the three was a sort of thick miasma, obscuring the small town beyond them. The little girl's bright, youthful eyes shined like a beacon amid the obscuring, misty cloud.

Jefferson neared the door again as the other inhabitants of the room remained still, including Ernest, who watched the unfolding events with uncertainty. The confidence of his ritualistic behavior only moments prior faded to concern.

As Jefferson stood near the door and the shutters rose to about waist-level of the people outside, Jefferson shouted to them. "We're going to save you! Just one minute! The shutters will be up in just a minute." The shutters rose to their chests, then to their heads. The small family watched Jefferson through the glass in relief and absolutely everything was silent; not a lick of wind, not a roar of thunder, only the stranded family, the mist, and then something else...

That's when something unexpected occurred.

Behind the three, the mist cleared—repelled—from the being behind the stranded family outside of the post office. Long arms hung nearly to the ground, clad in a white jumpsuit, ratty and torn near the long, twisted feet. The head was bald, inhuman and vile. First, there was no mouth on the creature, only those violent, slanted eyes staring into Jefferson's soul.

Jefferson slowly stepped back, mouth dropping open at the terrible sight. The father of the stranded family pounded on the door, asking, unaware of the ghoulish being behind them. "What are you doing?" His muffled voice came through the door. "Are you going to unlock the door?!"

Jefferson's shaking hand rose and pointed toward the figure at the stranded family's flank. Miranda's eyes began to well with tears and she pulled her children into her body, both of which were watching the figure with the same, unspeakable terror.

The father outside stopped for a moment and turned slowly. As he turned, his small family turned with him and each of them recognized the figure then, each of them slamming their backs against the door, but there was nowhere to go. The father pounded on the glass with the back of his fist. "Open the door! Open the door!" He cried, followed by the others.

Slowly the sound of their cries began to fade, as if muffled by the covering hands of the fog, or absorbed by something much worse. A different sound replaced those cries, a creeping, guttural noise that rose from the belly of the beast beyond the stranded family. The creature's eyes began to stretch downward, elongated into two ovals that were both blackened pits of madness. The greater the sockets stretched, the more the figure's greenish, decayed flesh ripped and rippled, and eventually the two eyes tore the separating flesh between them, creating a single, large, dark void that grew and consumed the entirety of the figures face. The body of the creature shook and twitched, with sharp spasms pulling its shoulders back. The hole in the creature's head grew, and huge rows of squared teeth began to line the conjoined sockets, making it into more of a violent, hungering maw. Larger and larger it grew, the head of the figure stretching, its jaw elongating to its chest, then to its waist and eventually until its chin hung from its head to the ground. Then, with a pit of a mouth the size of a person, the mouth expanded horizontally, each violent tear and rip, each vibrating, deep groan and breathe as clear to those inside of the post office as if it were being grunted against their very ears. And when the mouth of the figure was but an unnatural hole to oblivion, the sound stopped and the entire family turned with tear-filled eyes to those inside.

The only sound that was heard in what was an ear-ringing silence was a final plea, "Help me." The sound was whispered from the child outside. In a single, wheezing, ragged breath the whole family was drawn into the mouth of the creature as if being sucked into the funnel of a tornado. Into the pit they went, like a stone through space, until they were so far into the infinity of blackness that they were gone forever. Inside, everyone stood watching absolutely stunned and helpless. The wheezing continued. It was a maddening sound that shook sanity to pieces with each successive breath. To call such a thing a breath at all was a defilement to raw action that often promoted life. This sound: this was the sound of true death. It was only subdued by the sudden hum of motors and the reeling of metal shutters that began their way back down, first obscuring the top of the creature, then the middle, then the bottom, discernable in no other way, because now the figure was but a mouth. The second the shutters closed, there was a violent quaking of the earth, one that shook the entire room, a room that was now complete darkness but for a meager light coming from the cracked door to the basement.

The group in white looked around confusedly. Ernest cried out. "Quickly! To the sanctuary! He has returned into the earth! It is time for the consumption!" And the group began into the stairwell and down the stairs. The Quinn family stood in the darkness. Bradley cried against his trembling mother.

"W-What in the world is going on, Jeff? Did you see that?! What was that?" Miranda asked her husband, knowing the question was unanswerable.

Jefferson shook his head. "I don't know. These people know what it is and if they know what it is, maybe they can stop it. Com'on." And Jeff ushered his family toward the stairs in haste, making his way down them ahead of his family, looking for the group. As they arrived at the base of the stairs, the last of the group in white was running into the storage room door. Jeff marched after them, tailed closely by his family.

When Jefferson arrived at the other side of the hall, he opened the storage room door to peer inside, just as another violent quake shook the hall, inspiring a feeling of falling vertigo, that often experienced in a sharp dip while in a car or on a carnival ride. The only light left in the hallway fizzled out, leaving it dark and empty in a world already becoming increasingly less stable. The only remaining light flickered from the other side of the storage room door. Carefully, Jeff cracked the door open to witness the events transpiring within.

Inside of the storage room was a sanctuary, the one referred to by Ernest prior to his retreat from the events upstairs. The room's walls, which were lined with metal shelves and parcels, were covered with encompassing white sheets, closing the room in and masking its true use. The room was a storage room for the post office, but this makeshift sanctuary was established for a ritual the group knew was coming. The revelation was only more disturbing to Jeff, realizing that it was quite possible the group was prepared for the arrival of the figure beyond the walls, now claimed to be "in the earth" and would have left the Quinn's outside to be swallowed by the beast should they have not entered before the shutters were closed. The Quinn family huddled close to Jefferson as they watched the events unfolding within.

"Lord of Earth, Consumer of Life, Maw of Eternity, hear our praise unto you!" Ernest's fervent words illuminated the room almost as much as the candelabras stationed around the center desk, one turned into a sort of ritual slab by covering it with a white, embroidered sheet bearing the image of the figure. The embroidery resembled the straw effigy near the Glencoe city sign. "Tear from this earth this fertile land and be renewed with the power of our honoring spirits! Taste of devotion and cleanse your palate of the wicked perversions that rejected your call! Wash your tongue of the pitiful naysayers and take in our rich vitae!" Ernest's hands shot up as he called out for the monster, waiting for an answer. It came in another powerful quake. For a moment, the Quinn family thought the ground beneath them was giving away, but their world stabilized a moment later. The droning siren, what Ernest called "the signal fire," began again, sending a chill down Jefferson's back.

Miranda spoke near her husband's ear. "Jeff, the siren, it's going again! Do you think that thing is coming back? We need to stop this!"

Jeff nodded, looking through the room again. He was trying to find the best method of disturbing the ritual. He eyed the sheets and the shelves, then the parcels and the individuals all surrounding the center desk, hands high, sharing praise in unison.

Ernest gestured to one of the members in white. The responder nodded, as if knowing what the gesture meant without words and moved into the darkness of the room before emerging with Fallon in tote. Fallon seemed weak, easily guided and offered no resistance to the ushering. Her chest heaved heavily and her breathing was a ragged, pitiful wheeze, unlike that of the violent creature that emerged from the mist, but like that of an asthmatic child in desperate need of an inhaler. Fallon was lifted and placed on the top of the desk, facing the ceiling.

Jefferson realized he had no time. No longer was this merely about stopping a condemnable ritual—they were now threatening a child and the only person in the group that seemed to still retain any sort of human compassion. Jefferson looked back to his family, saying the words many brave men before him said before rushing to their demise: "Stay here."

Jefferson burst into the room as the rest of the Quinn family sunk into the protection of the darkness behind them, watching the events from within their veil.

"Stop this! This is absolute madness! What do you plan to do with her, huh? Kill her?! Kill her like you killed those people upstairs?!" Jefferson said in direct accusation, his eyes staring to the leader, Ernest.

Ernest turned back to Jefferson, caught off guard by his candor. He then began to laugh, shaking his head at Jefferson, as a king would to his court's fool.

"There's no stopping this now, Jefferson Quinn. The wheel's already spinning and there is no brake for what comes." Ernest pointed to the girl after his warning. "She now breathes as the Hungerer does. She is channeling her life through him. She is guiding his breathing. She shines now like a beacon for him to swallow this world!" And he turned back to Fallon.

Fallon now began to struggle, but two adult members of the group in white held the girl down as she gasped for breath. The earth quaked again, bringing the Quinn family to hold on to the shaking walls of the hallway they were in, them hoping they wouldn't give.

"Consume us! Consume us!" Ernest cried out to the ceiling. The group in white chanting with their leader, first disparately but soon in a powerful unison.

Fallon began to shake her head before turning her glossy eyes to Jefferson. Behind Jefferson, Bradley burst into the room and shouted, "Help her, Dad! Help her! You have to do something!"

Jefferson did a final scan through the room, being mostly ignored by the fanatical, chanting group, and finally noticed a panel near the wall, denoted by a strip of silver duct tape which read, in large, bold lettering, "SHUTTERS."

Jefferson yelled out to his son, "Bradley! Pull that switch! Right there, at the wall! Pull the switch!" And with the order Jefferson ran further into the room, pulling down shelf after shelf. The metal shelves came crashing down, causing a panic among the members of the chanting group. They would become disoriented in their chanting, but would resume a moment later with the direction of their focused leader, Ernest. Another large shelf came crashing down nearer to the group. The shelf's collision with the ground was met with an equal reaction from the quivering earth, and the entire building shook once again, only this time sending a violent, webbed cracking through the ceiling above the ritual members. They all looked to the ceiling, stopping their chanting for just a moment before continuing.

Bradley reached the far side of the room. He was almost trailed by his mother, but she remained back, with her arms covering her fear-stricken, frozen daughter, Chelsie. Bradley leapt up to grab a hold of the lever and pulled down the switch to the "open" position. Miranda and Chelsie turned and peered down the long hallway, hearing the motors and shuffling of metal from upstairs, assuring the switch worked—only it stopped prematurely as another quake ripped through the building, shuffling stone from the walls of the hallway to litter the exit path, if there was an exit at all.

Bradley followed his father's lead and tried to pull over a shelf, but was unsuccessful in doing so with his lack of strength. He struggled instead to pull a sheet that masked the shelf and grappled the entirety of the fabric until it tore from the ceiling and floated haphazardly down toward the group. While Bradley rushed to avoid having the sheet fall on him, the fabric floated atop one of the candles in the large candelabra, and swiftly caught fire.

The group split at the sudden rise of flames, moving toward a now littered corner of the storage room. Ernest shouted to the group, commanding them with all of his power, trying to regain control as the quakes, the fire, the crashing of furniture and all hell broke loose about them. As the flames rose, Jefferson dashed around the group, and each of them shied away from him as though he were an uncontrollable madman; at this point, he very much was. He picked up his son, Bradley and moved toward the desk in the center of the room, approaching from the side least affected by the spreading fire.

"I'm taking her with me, Ernest! I'm taking the girl!" Jefferson advised, holding his son against him as the flickering light cast over his perspiring face.

Ernest turned to Jefferson with a smile. He didn't wear the same sort of fear as the other followers. It was a look of a man absolved, done with what needed to be done with. "You're too late! I said you're too late! Listen! Listen, you fool!" Ernest's eyes became as bright as the rising flames, their gloss and his madness reflecting the chaos in the room.

That was when Jefferson and his son, Miranda and Chelsie, the group in white, and Ernest all heard it: the guttural, deep wheezing. The ragged, haunting breaths. They rose from tiny Fallon, laying on the desk, her chest heaving as she desperately sought air in a room that was becoming difficult to breath for anyone. With Fallon's affliction, breathing was nearly impossible. However, the sounds, while they came from her, were not her own. The fire rose with her exhale, sunk and quivered with her inhalation, bent in her direction and by her will with each breath. From them, Jefferson carefully backed away.

Jefferson set his son to the ground and rushed to the hallway to meet with his wife and daughter. They stared into the room helplessly as the violent, infernal storm rose, as if the girl's breathing were a puffing bellows. The group in white on the other side of the room became trapped behind a wall of inescapable fire. The flames tore in an almost supernaturally directed path to Ernest and caught on his white pants, sending the fire swiftly up his body to consume him whole.

Covered in flames, Ernest shouted still, "Consume us! Consume us!" As his skin burned and melted away. Miranda covered her daughter's eyes and backed further into the dark hallway. Knowing there was nowhere else to go and nothing else he could do to save the group, Jefferson turned to his family and shouted, "Run!"

The group made it down the dark hallway, by feel and trial, tripping over falling stone, a giving ceiling and other obstructions generated by the crumbling shelter. They reached the stairs and one by one filtered up after each other, trying to maintain their balance as the ground quaked and felt as though it prepared to give away. At the top of the stairs, the family burst through the basement door and rushed toward the exit. The shutters had only opened about three feet, but offered a chance for escape yet. With the little light produced from under the stairs, one significantly darker than the last time the shutters had opened, Jefferson grabbed a hold of a wooden chair in the lobby, cracked it into pieces over the edge of the counter and prepare to use the remaining leg to smash the glass on the other side of the partially opened shutters.

Jefferson charged the door and slid toward it while his family watched, calling out frantically as the edge of the roof began to cave, sending debris and wire down over the basement door. "Hurry, Dad! Hurry!"

Jefferson, flat on his side, slammed the wooden leg of the chair into the glass, cracking it as the ceiling had shattered in the storage room below. Still, in this position, he could hear the cries of the man below, somehow still alive, chanting, "Consume us!" It even was joined in unison, as though the other members in white began again. The heavy, terrible wheezing shook the core of the building and the earth. Each breath broke the building apart more and more. With another sharp strike, the glass broke to reveal what was beyond it, something Jefferson hadn't noticed in his frantic slide and attack on the glass: The city was being swallowed into the ground.

One by one, buildings were toppling over, imploding and falling into the open earth, consumed by a sort of quick sand. Entire slabs of ground were pulled with each wheezing breath, cracking and shattering roads and foundations effortlessly. Jefferson realized the building they were in practically sat on a plateau as every bit of ground around them sank away with the violent, incessant quaking. Jefferson realized something his family couldn't from their vantage: They were doomed and there was no escape. There he laid, taking slow breaths, abandoning the wooden chair leg and rolling to his back. He stared at the ceiling before his family rushed to him.

"Dad? Dad?" It was all a warbled distortion, barely audible over that wheezing sound and the quickly deteriorating building. Explosions were heard in the distance, causing the rest of the family to witness what was happening.

"Jefferson..." Miranda said softly, his wife's voice cutting momentarily through the madness. "...I love you, Jefferson." She said.

Jefferson closed his eyes, brought his family into his body and there they laid, a small mound of profound effort and love for one another. The last breath came, staggered and desperate before it was snuffed out. The ground below the Quinn's gave way and into the earth they went, forever and ever, together, as one.

RETURN TO THE TABLE OF CONTENTS
Our Spirits out West

April 16, 1847

We are finly prepard for travel out west. Its been a long time comin but Im excited about the prospecks of the Fort Deposit in new Oregon. Floyd has bin sayin that our life theres going to change dramaticly. I'm going to be far from my famly and frends, but I'll still have Floyd with me. We have enlisted a few men to go with us and thank God we have the monies to do so. Floyd workin as a docter has made all the difference. He calls himself froogel. I call him a sweet hart. Froogel is just a funny word. Since a majorty of the group is not going our way in Oregon, Floyd has also hired us three hands to help with evrything. I hope to keep this jernal while travelling. It is many months travel.

Sincerely,

Hattie

***

It occurred to Harriet Greyson that, though the group admitted being "prepared" for travel, there was a distinct difference in preparation of commodity and preparation to leave. It was the very break of dawn, where the birds chirped proudly in the Missouri sky, fluttering from oak to hickory in the lumber town they prepared to depart from. The wind was cool and fresh, more soothing in the chest than the past winter nip. Floyd Greyson, Harriet's husband and one of the local doctors in the small community, spoke of plans and intents with some of the other men from the travelling company.

The group was a small one for Western travel, but they were as prepared as any, weakened solely by their size. Each wagon was thoroughly outfitted with foodstuffs and accompanied by cattle to maintain the caravan along the dangerous (albeit somewhat routine) travel across the continent to Oregon, and for the Greyson's, more specifically Fort Deposit.

Fort Deposit was less popular than other Forts in the Oregon region, but it had an important purpose: to restock and aid travelling groups moving through the interior of Oregon, headed to the coast. While many travelers often believed they were prepared for the long haul through some of the world's most desiccated lands, the truth of the matter often reared its head at Fort Deposit, in the form of sickly, starving caravans, the bodies of fallen family members, pestilence and rescue parties trying to prevent it all. Floyd's ambitions were two part. He knew that Fort Deposit was lacking a steady medical professional, one that could help those that find themselves in the worst of positions. Second, Floyd was a man of gentle nature and an intellectual, hardly a man's man, but all the while excited by the prospect of change and adventure. To make up for his lack of skill in many important trades associated with such distanced and rigorous travel, Floyd had hired three hands. The cattle hand and butcher was known as Jim Bleckley. Jim was an astoundingly short man, often with a foul temper and equally foul interest in hard alcohol. As was the case, the commodities came stocked with such fuels for Jim, to be saved for the early evenings and for promise of early sleep. Hank Paulson was a carpenter's assistant. Finding someone to fashion something out of wood in the town wasn't difficult with its business in lumber, but Hank knew a thing or two about maintaining the travelling wagons through varying terrains. He also was responsible for the several oxen required for towing the heavy cart and those within it. The last of the three was Grant Vickers, a small-time cartographer responsible for mapping a good portion of settled Missouri and an excellent guide, hoping to map the West and make a name for himself in the distant region. Everyone involved with the travelling party had something to gain from the challenge; everyone except for Harriet. She was a woman in a time that demanded she did as her husband did.

Harriet grew up in the Boston, part of a family of tailors, and lived comfortably, but was by no means wealthy. She was always a strong woman, defiant of her proposed place of inferiority to men. Often, society reminded her that the patriarchal establishment of the post-Puritan United States was one that wouldn't easily be broken, especially by a woman with her lack of prestige. Harriet did all she could to make herself more capable as a woman, despite the odds: she learned to read and write, though her writing was poor. She practiced often, learned as much as she could from the books she could manage herself (her father was a dedicated reader, mostly of newspapers and documents on the development of the blossoming country). It was at the age of twenty that Harriet fell extremely sick with pneumonia and was placed, perhaps fatefully, in the care of a relatively young doctor, Floyd Greyson. Floyd was especially dedicated to the well-being of the young girl, both because of his admiration for her beauty beyond the plague and his ambition to be known as a great doctor. The ambition of those that begin a career is often gauged in the realm of the fantastic and impractical; Floyd's will was no different than that of many others beginning their tenure in some discipline, only his made differences in life and death.

Harriet, under Floyd's care, did something that few people did in their age: she recovered from her sickness, unscathed. The connection between Floyd and the young Harriet then was unbreakable, vowed in a manner similar to the consummation of a sort of abstract virginity, one for a career, one for a life, both through each other and the result was a magnificent love for one another. Floyd taught Harriet of things she'd never heard of, about people and sickness, about the mannerisms of different societies and cultures inside the United States and in the "Old World" of England. Floyd, unlike Harriet, was much more fortunate in his financial roots. Floyd also knew a great deal about the natives of the new American lands, coined "Indians," however, Floyd was certain to let Harriet know that the dubbing of the natives as Indians was a misnomer, a result of the ignorance of early exploration. These tales were fascinating to Harriet through and through. Harriet should have been excited about the prospect of travelling west, and she was in their initial journey from Massachusetts to Missouri, where they'd settle for a short time. It was the idea of travelling from Missouri to Oregon that was a bit harder for Harriet to swallow.

It took Harriet some time to settle into the small lumber town in Missouri. The area was dominated by men, which made Harriet's strong personality no greater an asset than it was in the more refined and diversified east. As result, Harriet became a bit of a homebody, happy with the contentment of her personal privacy and her times with her very busy husband. Floyd wasn't as busy dealing with sickness as much as he was dealing with traumatic injury. Harriet had become a champion in the field of removing blood from shirts. She'd also had to turn her home into a makeshift clinic once when one of the lumber warehouses collapsed on a group of men just outside of the town. Harriet could still recall the riddled and maimed men, some with their eyes shoved deeper into their heads, penetrated by large, splintered pieces of wood. Others had hands or arms crushed, leaving a curdled mess of gored bones and flesh. One man was nearly chopped in two by the falling ceiling of the warehouse. Harriet could still recall the two men bringing him in, his eyes wide, head covered in sweat and blood while the middle of his torso moved with the carrying men in ways that didn't depend on the natural pivot of hips, but instead swayed on a spinal axis that seemed frail and prepared to split the man in two at any time. In these times, Harriet did all she could to comfort the men, nursing them, though only few survived for more than a week.

The proposition of travelling out West and the ordeal of those that often came to Fort Deposit frightened Harriet in ways that the accidental massacre of the men in the lumber town couldn't. Harriet felt as though she could handle the blood and the gore from the various accidents in the town, often with men as victims. The tales of Fort Deposit were much worse, as Harriet had overheard in a conversation between Floyd and Grant Vickers.

***

"People do desperate things, you know?" Vickers said, tapping a rolled map against his opposing, open palm.

"All people do desperate things, Grant. Typically, the things done by people when they're desperate for their own lives... well, at least those things are properly warranted." Floyd was at his desk, looking over one of Grant's maps, trying to figure out the very best course for the travelling party.

"Yes. I agree with you mostly. However, when are those things that are done to preserve life so terrible that death is a better response? A more human response?" Vickers challenged.

Floyd looked up from the map for a moment to watch Grant suspiciously. "For the sake of life, Grant, I'd suggest just about anything is a proper response."

And Grant went on further. "How about killing others to preserve one? Or killing one to preserve many?"

Floyd leaned back in his seat after placing his quill back into the ink jar. "Murder is a sin, Grant. I don't believe there's anything that morally constitutes murder."

Vickers nodded, leaning against a wall. He tapped that map again, silent for a moment. "Funny, isn't it? How we justify murder by our own law, yet we regard it as sin when done outside of the law? Justice brings men to the executioner, sometimes men that haven't killed anything! Yet, when lives are at stake, you suppose that killing one for the sake of the lot... that's a bad idea? That's immoral?"

Floyd shook his head, turning back to the map, becoming less interested in the conversation. "I'm not a law man, Grant. I'm a doctor. My job is to keep people alive, not to decide who deserves to and who doesn't."

Grant smirked. "Well, you're fortunate enough to have not been in a situation that demands you to make such decisions. However, the trip like we're planning to take? Some people have made some very..." He paused, thinking of the correct euphemism. "...interesting decisions for the sake of life and preservation."

Floyd dabbed his quill into the ink and marked a line that curved over the Northern side of the Sierra Nevada. Floyd spoke somewhat distantly. "Only God will judge what is proper of preservation and what is worthy of condemnation." Floyd looked up to Grant then. "And I am no God." And his final comment resounded within his mind as he stared down onto the map in front of him, feeling a strange omniscience with his bird's eye view of the mapped continent below him, and the black line he'd strewn over the Northern peak of the mountains, creating the image of a black chasm that slashed through the same geography established by the god he claimed.

***

April 17, 1847

Weve began our trip now and its been pritty slow going. I forget how the trip was from Boston to Missouri! Only, this trip is certin to be many times longer than even that one! There was a suprise addision to the help. Mister Vickers has employd two Indian fellas to come along with us. Their names are too funny to try and write, and they are real quiet, but they seem nice enough and not savage like you hear bout in some of the tales.

Sincerely,

Hattie

***

"How're you doing in here, Hattie?" Floyd peeked into the wagon as the group halted for a break on the trail.

"I'm doing alright, Floyd. How are you doing?" Hattie returned with a coy smile.

Floyd grinned and pulled himself into the wagon to sit beside his wife. "It's pretty warm out there. But, while travelling, I think it's always better for it to be warm than to be cold. The warm kills people that aren't prepared for it. The cold just kills people regardless." He chuckled, knowing that was only partially true.

Hattie stared to the front of the wagon. "I have plenty of books to read, Floyd, but staring at these books with the rockin' and shakin' of the wagon... it makes my stomach knot up!"

"I could give you something, dear, but it'll probably put you right to sleep. Wouldn't be of much help. That is, of course, unless you care to sleep through some of these early parts of the trip. The land out there isn't anything you haven't seen, but I'm sure that by the time we get out West a bit, you're going to want to see the country. I hear it's beautiful. Grant and I have spoken about it some. Some of it a bit dangerous, too." Floyd added.

"Dangerous?" Hattie lifted a brow. "Well, it's nothing we can't handle, Floyd. We've been through the worst of it, if you ask me. We're the sort of people that can get done whatever we put our minds to, you know. Then, what sort of danger are you talkin' about?"

Floyd leaned back on the bench in the stuffed wagon, staring blankly forward himself to the supplies stacked within. "Well, there's a lot of things that are dangerous. There's the wild animals. The Indians. There's some areas of land that are about as dry as can be, which can make for trouble with the cattle and oxen. However, Grant's told me that him and his Indian fellows will be able to keep us in line with the best of the worst lands, dear."

Hattie watched her husband as he stared off distantly, seeing that he must have been envisioning the challenges they would face in his mind. Floyd was always a planner, but Harriet, a woman of wit herself, saw a flaw in the whole plan, though the flaw depended on an idea a bit negative, perhaps even macabre.

"And what should happen, say, in the case that something happens to Mr. Vickers? We're supposed to just head along and figure everything out ourselves? Sounds like we've invested quite a bit in his presence and knowledge of the land, Floyd." Hattie said, half-curious, half playing Devil's advocate.

Floyd snapped out of his daze and looked to his wife, surprised by her comments and questions. "Something should happen to Vickers? Oh, no! That's preposterous. What better company to be in than of this group?"

It was about then that the shouts of the short-tempered Jim came bursting through wagon's covering. "Son of a bitch! Not even a day! Not even a day before one of these blasted things wants to get sick! Well, I'll say! I'll say, God damn it!"

Harriet looked to her husband with a faint smile before leaning outside of the wagon to call out to the frustrated Jim. "Mr. Bleckley!" She shouted, with a stern look in her eyes.

Jim spun around, so short it almost seemed as though he spun simply from the torso up, to look toward Harriet, caught off guard by her shout. "Yes, Ma'am?" He questioned.

"Mr. Bleckley, I'll say, you have all the right to be upset about having assumed a sub-par creature, but I should remind you that the creature you shout about is as much a creature of God as is any other creature you've brought along on this trip, or the creatures that arranged for the trip, and shouting God's name in vain, sir, isn't going to buy us any more of His sympathy! So, I suggest you repent for your loose-tongue and focus your frustrations on other matters now and for the remainder of our trip, alright?"

Jim Bleckley watched the woman completely flabbergasted. His mouth moved as if to return words, of apology or protest, none could say, but nothing came out. Before he could ever find those words, Harriet ducked back into the wagon beside her husband, with a wide smile. "Hopefully that'll settle him down for a little while." Knowing the effect wouldn't be permanent. It was of Jim's nature to be foul-mouthed and easily-aggravated.

Floyd laughed, nodding with admiration to his wife, a woman unafraid of rustling some men's feathers if they needed it. "Well, it would have quieted me down, too, darling." And he leaned over to kiss her cheek before preparing to leave. Before he got out completely, Hattie grabbed his hand.

"Floyd?" She asked.

Floyd stopped, looking back to Hattie. "Yes?"

"We're going to be alright, aren't we?" Hattie asked, just for further assurance.

Floyd smiled and nodded. It was a question that couldn't be answered. Floyd was no fortune-teller. Still, Floyd answered with a confident "yes" and kissed his wife's hand before stepping out of the wagon. "Alright, Jim, let's do what we need to do and get moving again. Grant! Hank! We're moving on." And they did just that.

***

Many nights later, the travelling party (which was actually accompanied by many other travelling groups, all in a similar line, but some distance away from each other) stopped and set up a campfire. There, Floyd, Harriet, Hank, Jim, Grant and his Indian counterparts all sat and worked at what was carved of the questionable cow.

"It seems a tad bit foolish to be eating of a cow that was likely sick, don't you think, Jim?" Floyd asked. Of course, this didn't stop him from eating away, or anyone else.

Jim shrugged. "Well, we could have a dead cow, or we could kill the cow before it's too sick. These cow sicknesses, Floyd, they ain't the same as our sicknesses. This stuff doesn't make us sick the same. Better to eat the thing then for it to die off. It wasn't going to get any better and the land isn't going to become any more accommodating."

Floyd nodded, agreeing somewhat with the rationale of the man. Jim was a greater expert with the cattle than Floyd was, however it was impossible for Floyd to not consider some of his own education in medicine. It made some sense that the dangers weren't applicable, and fire, under most circumstances, was a purifier. He'd made sure his and Hattie's food was well done. The rest of the meat would be dried to be maintained.

Harriet watched the Indian men sitting beside Grant, who was also enjoying a hearty meal. She noticed the two men were simply staring into the fire, without a meal of their own. It brought Hattie to question Grant.

"Why aren't they eating, Mr. Vickers? Aren't they hungry? They need to eat, too, don't they?" Harriet asked, nodding in the direction of the two men. In that moment, she observed them, too. They both had a sun-touched, brown skin, one of the two seeming a bit more exposed to the sun than the other, for the roughness of the texture of his skin, which could be seen with the illumination of the fire. Both of them wore long, black hair beyond their shoulders, which was unnatural of men in Hattie's culture, one even with braids, which were absolutely reserved for girls and women. They dressed similarly to Grant and Jim, with leathers and American-style clothing; nothing like the tales of the savage Indians in tribes throughout the continent. The way they were dressed, in fact, was one of the things that was most settling about the two being a part of the group. It only slightly outweighed their near-absolute silence, which might have been because of their lack of understanding for the English language.

Grant looked over to his counterparts. "Their tribe isn't the meat-eating sort. A lot of superstition around the eating of meat with them. What I understand is that they believe that if you eat the meat of a creature, its strengths become your strengths. The same, its weaknesses become your weaknesses. Their tribe eats meat in certain ceremonies and rituals, but not commonly. They're very selective. They never eat cattle, either." Grant said, wrapping up his tale with a bite into the steak.

Harriet watched Mr. Vickers as he bit into the tough meat of the cow, watching the juices spray out the side of his mouth, each spackle illuminated with glowing fire like spring dew on the morning grass. The sounds of Vickers chewing seemed to resonate until the crushing and tenderizing of the chewed meat sounded like a train heading Harriet's way. She only snapped out of the intense moment when Floyd poked at her arm.

"Harriet?" He asked.

Harriet blinked her eyes a times before recognizing her husband through the fading glaze. "I-I'm sorry, Floyd. T-That's an interestin' story, Mr. Vickers. I didn't know such beliefs existed in these native tribes. An unusual practice."

Grant shrugged. "Is it? The Holy Bible is full of ritualistic practices and warnings about profane foods. Of course, not many people follow those rules. We happen to like a little bit of profanity, us people."

Harriet smirked, though the men in the party laughed; all except the two Indian fellows, who now kept an eye on Harriet. Harriet herself no longer had much of an appetite for the meat and decided she would call it a night.

The men spent the evening talking, some of them drinking and sharing stories before they head off to sleep themselves. The night was a peaceful one until a strange sound stirred Harriet from her slumber.

***

April 18, 1847

Last night, I was privy to the most pecular thing... while I was sleeping, I herd the sounds of men chanting words Ive never herd before. I woke up to look out of my tent and saw that it was the two Indian fellas and they were still awake over the fire. The sounds were only part of whatever it was they were doin. There were feathers in their hands and they were shakin them back and forth. The eyes of one of the two men were wite, like they were rolled back in his hed. The one with the feathers, he threw some dust into the fire and it made the fire rise high before it came back down. I swear to you, I saw somethin in that fire. I cant explain it to you, but it wasnt just flames. Im going to talk with Floyd about it when I have a chance. I know we need these Indians to help. I just hope that they dont beckon anything thats gonna make this worse.

Sincerely,

Hattie

***

Harriet did have a chance to tell Floyd about what she saw, many days later, when they were alone, talking late at night. Floyd warned Harriet to mind her business when it came to the Indian guides. Floyd reminded her that native people of America were very superstitious and that they believed in "nature gods" that were very different than the Christian god they knew. He advised her that their practices may seem foreign, like voodoo or witchcraft, but it was their own, in their own land, and it was their right, in this undeveloped section of America more than any, to practice their faith as they saw fit. Finally, he reminded her that there was no danger in their practice.

The issue of danger was what concerned Harriet most of all. Harriet wasn't as sure as Floyd was about the potential danger of the Indian's practices. She wondered if they were casting curses instead of wards of protection. She thought maybe the Indians were finding a way to get revenge for all of their tribesmen that were killed by the colonial settlers many years ago, or revenge on those taking their lands from them. She was afraid of the silent, dark men. It took all she could manage to trust her husband and Mr. Vickers, who assured her time and time again that they were a safe party.

Time went on and travelling became a terribly boring affair. The group had been lucky with the majority of their travel, as the provisions brought along sufficed fairly, the wagon held up short of a few wheels and tears in the canvas top, the cattle were strong despite occasional shortages of grazing lands and sickness strayed from the Greyson party in ways that it hadn't with some of the other travelling groups that had already given members to God. As was with anything, everything was eventual, and when entering the desiccated Midwest, the axle of the wagon gave with a sharp snap and caused an immediate halt of the group. Harriet, who was in the wagon, grasped on to all she could with the sudden jolt of the mechanical failure and shouted out to her husband with worry.

"Floyd! Floyd, what's the matter out there? Did something happen?" Always thinking of the worst before the best.

"Come on out, Harriet! Step on out of the wagon. Oh! Oh, son of a bitch! Son of a bitch, we broke an axle, I think!" It was unusual for Floyd to curse, but the fact that he did said something about the severity of the situation.

Harriet emerged carefully from the wagon, with the escort of Mr. Vickers who was already standing a step or two behind Hank. Hank was assessing the situation with the wagon, only to give a nod back to Floyd and to his assumption of the axle.

"It's an axle alright. This will take a while to repair, Mr. Greyson. I know it's still early, but I don't think we're moving much more today. We're going to have to move around some of the provisions. Take them out of the wagon, keep them close by. I'll see if we have everything we need to get this going again, but I think we may have to wait for one of the travelling parties to catch up with us, maybe to lend a hand." Hank frowned to the thought. He knew, much as the others did, that the Greyson party was some time ahead of the others. It could have been hours, or even a day or so, before the other groups caught up to them to help with the replacement of the integral part of the wagon's structure. "We'll do what we can. Com'on, let's get this stuff off of the wagon."

Hank then worked with the members from the party to begin moving things around to accommodate the maintenance that had to be done. Harriet helped best she could, concerned about having much of their provisions exposed, as well as many of their personal items. The wagon had become something of a home for Harriet and it felt as though it were being ransacked. The experience gave her a bit of perspective, however. It reminded her of the reality of travelling, of what she was really a part of, and how things could go from good to bad in a moment.

When everything was appropriated for the maintenance, the group did what they could to try and get the wagon back in working order. The few efforts they gave were unsuccessful, however, and Hank advised the group on the matter as the sun was falling in the West; on the horizon of the land they now longed for.

"We'll need some help, for sure. I think with a couple more hands, with the break we've got down there, it shouldn't be a whole lot more trouble. But we'll get everything taken care of." Hank said, dirty and sweaty beneath the falling sun. He wiped at his hands while waiting for the decision from Floyd and Grant.

Floyd crossed his arms in frustration. He thought for a moment, hoping to discover some sort of resolve. It was the falling sun, however, that told him that no more progress would be made this day and it would be best they waited for the next of the travelling parties to arrive before they moved on. With that decision, Floyd looked back toward the East and the direction they came. There was no sign of any of the travelling groups headed west. No lights flickered in the distance, a distance that was visible for miles from this part of the country. Instead, the group prepared a fire, a meal and their tents for the evening, prepared to do all that they could and wait. Eventually, someone arrived, in the cool twilight hours, but it wasn't who the group expected or hoped for.

***

It was a shout that broke the dull droning sound of the nocturnal insects, a sound that became an equal to silence to those submit to it for a long enough time, as the Greyson party had been. The shout was of a voice unfamiliar to Harriet, who stirred in the bedroll beside her husband, who hadn't quite woke up himself. Harriet shoved at Floyd sharply.

"Floyd!" Harriet said in a sharp whisper. "Floyd, wake up! There's someone out there!"

Floyd rolled with the first shove before slowly opening his eyes and sitting up. "Someone out there?" He didn't bother to whisper, still responding in a pseudo-unconsciousness. "Hattie, it's got to be the middle of the night. No party would be travelling at this time."

It was then that the cover of the tent was pulled swiftly open and a demonic image stared the two in the eyes, its face painted with whites and reds, feathers rising from its long black hair, bare chest covered in scars and tribal markings. It shouted in words that were unfamiliar, but the sound of them was enough to denote that they were threats. The waving hands of the strange being suggested Harriet and Floyd leave the tent immediately.

Disoriented and too afraid to scream, both Floyd and Harriet rose with the foreign commands, ushering themselves out of the tent toward the pit of smoldering embers that held the evening's fire. Most of the group was being ushered out of their tents at the same time, and each of them realized that it was a group of Indians that were corralling the stranded party toward the fire.

Mr. Vickers stood next to the two Indian guides from their own party, both of whom didn't seem to be receiving any sort of special treatment from what was likely to a foreign tribe. The only one missing from the group was Hank, and a spear-wielding soldier was shouting into his tent. The loud, threatening sounds of the aggressive tribesman trying to get Hank out of his tent were undermines by the thunderous crack of gunfire from the tent. The Indian man dropped dead right in front of Hank's tent before the entire group of raiding tribesman rushed the tent with their spears held high and began aimlessly plunging the sharp weapons into the meager shelter. The tent gave way to their stabbings and fell as burial sheet atop Hank, whose blood oozed from and flung from the tent with each successive thrust. Harriet, who had no doubt that Hank was dead beneath the relentless assault, grabbed a hold of her husband, realizing that it was likely they were next. Floyd held her firmly, watching the attack, disturbed. Still, the entire party, short of the man they needed most in their current dilemma with the wagon, held still, knowing that it would be impossible to outrun the raiders.

Harriet whispered to her husband. "I don't want to die, Floyd! I don't want to die today! I wanted to be out West with you!"

Floyd gently brought a hand to Harriet's face, continuing to watch the excessive massacre of their friend. His tone expressed clearly that he was both afraid and about to tell a lie. "We aren't going to die here today. We'll be alright." And it was a lie only because he was uncertain of their fate. He whispered prayers a moment later, aided by his wife.

The next sound came from behind them, and though the word that came from their flank was foreign, the accent behind it sounded familiar: "Shoshoni!"

Harriet nearly leapt out of her skin at the sound, turning swiftly to see what else had come, expecting it was reinforcements by the word said. Instead, it was a middle-aged man and a younger counterpart, both with cowboy hats and horses. None of the party seemed to hear the approach of the men and the creatures, but it was likely that their attention was so drawn to the violence that they would be unaware of the trivial trotting of a horse. The Greyson party, now afraid and perplexed by the turn of events, watched the new arrivals. The Indian raiders stopped the savage stabbing into the now blood-soaked tent and turned to the men, saying a few words in their native language, as threateningly so as they had sounded while corralling the group.

The men stepped past the captive Greyson party and returned words, in the language of the natives. Harriet took the time to look over the men. The elder was strapped with two revolvers, which would have had enough bullets in them, if loaded, to kill off the entire raiding group twice over. Furthermore, the younger fellow held a shotgun in his hand, which could have done a fine job itself, if utilized.

There was a standoff of silence between the raiders and the gunmen, all in full spectacle of the confused and unsettled Greyson party. Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, fear came into the eyes of each of the raiding tribesmen, and they began shouting, "Dzoavits! Dzoavits!" A word strange to the party, but the two Indian guides shifted uncomfortably, looking between each other.

The gunmen looked between each other as well, as if giving a nonverbal queue to do what needed to be done. The elder of the two pulled both pistols and began firing on the raiders. At the same time, the younger man, with the shotgun, stepped forward to close his range, firing powerful, bloody shots into the native group of raiders. Gore filled the sky as pieces of the painted men colored the dark backdrop of the night. Blood shot out of the men like a fountain, making the assault on Hank in his tent look mild. Every bullet was shot out of the end of each pistol with an assaulting, audible crack through the sky and twelve shots were counted from the pistol. When nothing was left of the raiders but a mound of body parts, feathers and torn leathers, all behind the smoky haze of fresh gunfire, there was a silence.

The Greyson party all remained close to each other, watching the fresh exhibit, mortified. When the gunmen turned back to them, the entire group winced and leaned away.

"We're not here to hurt you. These fellas here? They're Shoshoni Indians. They don't take kindly to strangers, as you can see." And the elder gunman gestured back toward Hank's body. "They especially don't like it when you shoot at them. Then, if you're going to use your thunder-sticks, it's best you kill them all. If one of them got away, you'd better be damn sure the rest of them would be showing up soon. That being said, maybe your group should get movin' on instead of staying out here in the middle of nowhere as you are, with all these provisions." And the elder gunman looked over the boxes of goods brought for the trip, kept outside of the damaged wagon for the repairs that were required.

"Sir, I personally cannot thank you enough. Without your help, I'm sure we'd all be—" But he was cut off by the younger of the two gunman.

"You'd be dead? You think these fellas here would kill ya?" And he started to laugh. First, a bit of a dilapidated chortle snuck out unnaturally, but then he broke into a full laughter. The elder man joined him a moment later, causing the remaining Greyson party, and the two Indian guides, to watch the men suspiciously.

The elder gunman spoke then. "They probably would 'ave killed ya eventually. Wouldn't have buried you like we bury our folks. They don't have those same sorts of respects that you and I have. No, those Shoshoni, they have a respect for something a little different, and it ain't human." He warned, his smile fading.

"Ain't human?" Harriet echoed, asking first.

"Oh no." The elder gunman replied.

"What is it then? Some sort of god of theirs?" Harriet persisted.

"Some of this. Some of that. They got plenty of gods, the Shoshoni, but some of their

practices are things that separate the civilized from savages. You know, wild sexual practices and rituals..." And he paused for a moment, watching Harriet.

The stare made Harriet uncomfortable and she stepped nearer to her husband, if she could do such a thing. "Is that it?"

"There is one more thing." The elder gunman grinned, as if finding pleasure in the dark revelation. "They've been known for eating the dead."

Harriet's face contorted as she was mortified by the news. "They eat other people?!" She shouted. "That's unbelievable!"

Floyd, Grant and the others showed less expression to the news. Grant Vickers, in particular, was well aware of the stories out West. It so happened that the practice wasn't as unusual as Harriet may have thought it was, which verified as the younger gunman spoke up again.

"Well, it isn't just the Indians out this way eating people. You know, there's a share of good white people like ourselves that have been known to do the same thing, when desperate. Not all of them show up as stocked as your bunch and..." The young man looked back over the boxes of provisions. "...some of them come as ready as you are, and don't have a couple of us to come and save them. Even if they had let ya'll live, ya probably would have been eatin' each other by the end of the trek out West." And he smiled a wide, toothy smile to that.

"Oh, God no!" Harriet exclaimed. "I'd first die with dignity than ever resort to something as absolutely grotesque as cannibalism!" She shouted, with authority.

Floyd placed a hand on his wife's shoulder to calm her. Floyd understood that such a comment as the one made by the young man could have been considered an insult. Floyd hadn't heard of reports of cannibalism, but he understood that such a thing could happen should the situation became dire enough.

"Listen, we're not here to make a big deal out of any of this. You're safe for now, but you're going to have to get moving. What needs to be done to get this thing rolling again?" The elder gunman gestured to the immobile wagon.

Jim stepped forward, feeling a sort of responsibility to the position held by Hank only moments prior. With a grumbling tone, Jim said, "It needs an axle. And the only one that knew how to repair it was that guy over there." And Jim cast a short, denoting finger in the direction of the bloodied, broken tent. "Unless one of you two know a thing or two about wagons and repairs, I don't see us doing much here at all."

The two gunman looked to each other for a moment in another silent exchange. The elder looked back over the demoralized and terrified group. "Then maybe you all should come back with us? We're not a huge distance from here, just about seven miles south. I understand that's a bit of a walk, but the lady can ride with me, her husband with Chance, here." The elder gunman said while gesturing to his accomplice.

Grant looked to the two Indian guides and then to Jim. He spoke up. "I'm certain we'll be able to find our way. The guides know this land well. What's the name of the place?"

Chance spoke up as he approached his horse, then pulled himself up onto the saddle. "It's called Fort Bleck. Of course, it isn't much of a Fort, but it's good for what it's good for." And he didn't detail his ambiguous redundancy.

Floyd thought on the option for a moment, before asking. "And what about our things? And Hank? He deserves, at least, a proper burial. Not this." A frown emerged on Floyd's lips as he glanced toward the massacre.

The elder gunman smirked. "Well, let's do this: if one of your strongmen can carry the bloody heap back to the Fort, we'll talk about a 'proper burial,' otherwise, consider him lost. I'm sure his soul will find its way, only it won't have six feet of dirt to dig through. Now, we better get movin' before these Shoshoni realize their huntin' party ain't back when they're supposed to." And the gunman mounted his saddle the same, extending a hand toward Harriet. "Come along, Ma'am. Just hold tight. There isn't a thing to be worried about. Shady here is about the best horse in this part of the country, I reckon."

Harriet looked to her husband. If they couldn't take the body, they couldn't take their things. It was hard for Harriet to abandon the items from her home, but she didn't know what else to do. She tried to be strong, despite the terrible turn of events. "Floyd..." She said softly. "We should go. We'll come back for him. I promise you. And everything else."

Floyd sighed and nodded, though he knew as well as Harriet did that when they left, the provisions were as good as gone, but for what the walking group would be able to bring back. Jim stepped forward then.

"We can bring the body, Floyd. We'll bring him, but it means we're going to have to leave something. We'll bring the remaining cattle and the oxen. Load what he can on the yolk, to include Hank, and we'll bring the most important things. The horses, too. I'm afraid it ain't going to be many material things, Floyd. We'll probably need the food, you know." Jim was trying to be practical and honorable at the same time. In the situation given to them, it was difficult to be both.

"Bring Hank, Jim. I can't think of leaving him out here. Those savages will probably return, and I'd hate to think that they'd make a ritual out of Hank." And the thought made it hard for Floyd to swallow. He nodded, pleased with the idea. Floyd stepped toward Grant then. "Grant, you sure you're alright with the walk? It isn't an enormous distance, but it'll be dangerous."

Grant nodded, gesturing to the guides. "We'll definitely make it there. These two know the language. I'm not expecting we'll be able to reason with them, but by the time we're gone, we won't have a whole lot left to plunder. I've been in plenty of bad situations in my time, Floyd. Don't you worry about me. Get off to the Fort with your wife and we'll meet you there as soon as we can make it. Shouldn't take long, once we get everything together that we need to. And trust me, we'll be working quick."

Floyd sighed. "Alright, Grant. I'll see you at Fort Bleck, to the South."

"See you at Fort Bleck." Grant replied.

***

July 20, 1847

It has been many months now and Ive writen about many boring things. Comes to find out that travelin west isnt reel fun nor does it offur much to write about. Last nite I lerned that things can get more interestin then I woulda ever wanted. Hank was killed for shootin some indians that were attaking our camp. Floyd and I ended up leavin camp with the two men that saved us, one who is naimed Jasper and another named Chance. They seem like nice men for saving us but I cant stop thinkin about what they did to those indians. It says something I think when men shoot other men more times then is needed. I think that gose for anything. I guess it dont matter how nice they are then. Floyd and I got a room at Fort Bleck, wich is a shourt distance off our regular path and it aint much of a Fort. The walls are made of pointey logs and thers some cabins. There isnt many people here at the Fort but for Jasper and Chance and a couple of others that are looking sick who Floyd sed to stay way from. I think mister Vickers will be here soon and I hope and prey to God that they are all alright.

Sincerely,

Hattie

***

Harriet was roused by the sound of banjo playing outside of the cabin room Floyd and herself were afforded at Fort Bleck. Floyd was already up, sitting at a crude wooden desk near the door, where he watched Harriet from his vantage. Harriet cocked her head, allowing for a few of her messy curls to shift down the side of her face, and she asked with a smile. "Can I help you, sir?" She said almost playfully. It felt like a normal morning before the stoic look on Floyd's face remained despite Harriet's efforts and she noticed that he was unsettled. "Floyd, what is it?"

"They should be here by now, Hattie. It wasn't a great distance for them to travel and it's been all night and nothing." When Floyd fell silent and said nothing more of his concerns, the plucking banjo was all that was left to play its quick, successive notes behind their burdened thoughts of Jim, Grant and the guides. It was ill-suiting of the mood, but it was better than the deafening ring of silence that would have been in company otherwise.

"I bet they're alright, Floyd. I'm sure they are! God will protect them all, you know that! And he'll deliver them here, with everything that they could bring." Harriet rose from the bed and made her way clumsily toward her husband. She sat on his lap after turning him and his chair, with his assistance, her way. She wrapped her thin arms around his neck and brought herself close to him, to settle with her nose nuzzled into his neck. There, she whispered softly. "And we'll get ourselves together and be on our way to Oregon in no time, to live out West, just like we planned, hmm?"

"God didn't protect Hank." Floyd muttered, sending a chill through Harriet, as she felt the rumble of his throat as he said words bordering blasphemy.

"Mind yourself, Floyd! That's no way to speak of the Lord, now! You repent for that! Things haven't gone well, but I'll be damned if things couldn't be a whole lot worse now! Couldn't they? Couldn't they?" She burst from his lap with his remark and stared down to him angrily. She felt that now, of any time, was not the time to be making a mockery of God.

Floyd watched his angry wife for a moment. He nodded, dejectedly, and apologized. "I just don't understand. We should have been more prepared."

"Chances are, Floyd, there's a plan for each and every one of us. And if God wanted Hank, then God wanted Hank, and there isn't a thing you, or I, or Mr. Vickers or Jim or anyone could do about it, you hear? We just have to send up prayers and hope that things turn out how they should for us here on this Earth." Harriet continued her spiritual lecture. It wasn't unusual for Harriet to move into these sorts of tirades with Floyd, who with his profession, often confused the positions of gods and men. Then, he wasn't the sort of man to push his luck with his wife, who was a strong woman, and probably a greater source of fear than God was to him.

"I understand, Hattie. I'm sorry. I'm sure they'll be fine. How about you and I manage ourselves some breakfast here in the 'fort,' yes?" Floyd made a mockery of the term Jasper and Chance used for the small post, but these days, it was common for even the smallest keep on the frontier to be labeled a "fort." Fort Deposit, their final destination, wasn't one of those large, defensible structures like the Alamo mission out in Texas. Still, Fort Bleck offered shelter, likely food, some protection and, now, music.

***

Through each wound in Grant Vickers beaten body, blood came. Two horses out of those used by the Greyson party to travel adjacently to the wagon were all that were left of the many cattle, oxen and provisions. On the back of the horse Grant had made off with, the limp, dead-weight of his pulverized companion, Hank, flopped, in increasing danger of falling off of the back of the running steed. Close behind Grant was only one of the two Indian guides that were hired to accompany the Western-bound party.

Things had gone as could be expected. The delay to try and round up whatever provisions could be carried out, the assembly of the cattle and oxen after the raid, and the focusing on where exactly the Southern fort rested, were all things that contributed to the eventual arrival of a second Shoshoni group, curious of where their hunting party had disappeared to. When the second wave of Shoshoni stumbled onto the mound of overkill, the situation took a turn for the worst.

Before the violence broke out, things were already heading proverbially south for those that remained at the stranded wagon. One of the two guides refused to travel to Fort Bleck, frantically shouting about the word that was said by the first wave of Shoshoni raiders, "Dzoavits." While the word made the other guide as uncomfortable, it didn't drive him off, which meant that all that remained of the Greyson party at the wagon were Grant, Jim the butcher, and one of the two Indian guides. The party of three no later became a party of two when Jim Bleckley, who initially offered to protect the honor of Hank Paulson, the carpenter, was murdered by way of an arrow through the skull. Gunfire from the weapon that Grant Vickers had maintained after the first attack, kept his life, and the life of the remaining Indian guide, intact. The irony was that Hank's honor was likely to be preserved while the dead body of the one that made the offer to bring Hank back, Jim, was bloodied in the dirt, dead in the same place Hank died earlier.

Either concerned about ending up like the first wave of Shoshoni, or unconcerned with the fleeing of two men over the abandoned provisions at the camp, eventually both Grant and the guide made it away from the chase, heading East for some time, only to turn and head Southwest, in the direction of where the guide presumed Fort Bleck rested. The run off course cost them time, as did the attack, as did the fruitless preparation. The only sign of hope was that the Fort itself wasn't very distant, even after being sent off course for some time.

When there was no longer a need to run and a slower pace could be taken, it was. Grant Vickers rode beside the Indian guide with Hank better secured at his flank. Grant asked, suspiciously. "Is there any chance Akule told the Shoshoni where we were?" Akule was the name of the guide that fled in fear.

Apenimon, the guide that remained, shook his head. "No. Akule would not." His thick accent coming through the English words.

Grant sighed as he looked down the hill to what he believed was a small post, likely to be Fort Bleck some distance away. "How are you so certain? It makes sense he would tell of our whereabouts to protect himself. Cowardly, but people do such things to preserve their own lives."

Apenimon said nothing for some time, observing the distant post himself, eyes open and sharp for anything that could have been out of the ordinary. "We've already angered the Western spirits. We would not provoke them more than we have."

Grant watched Apenimon peculiarly. Grant wasn't one for spirits, either Christian or native, but with how terrible the trip had become so quickly for the Greyson party, if there was any prospect Grant was wrong on this one thing, he wouldn't make it any worse by provoking the unknown. He simply said, "If this is the result of angry spirits, then remind me what ritual it is that will allow me to make amends." And he smiled for the first time in a few days, continuing on his way down to the old post at the bottom of the hill.

***

Jasper and Chance waited at the gate of old Fort Bleck as Grant Vickers and Apenimon arrived, bloodied, wounded and with nothing but a dead, macerated body in tow. The two gunman looked to each other, sharing another nonverbal exchange, before looking back to the pitiful men.

"Looks like things didn't go quite as planned, eh?" Jasper confessed the obvious.

Meanwhile, the both disheveled Floyd and Harriet emerged from their cabin, rushing to assess the scene. When all that they saw were two men on two horses, and one dead slung behind Grant, the grim reality of the situation settled in.

"Where's Jim?" Harriet asked, almost too softly to be heard, as she felt she knew the answer before asking the question.

Grant halted on his horse, as did Apenimon, and merely shook his head. "We were attacked by a second wave of Shoshoni. We were able to make it off with these horses, Hank here, and that's all. Jim was killed almost immediately. The other guide ran off. We're all that's left, Hattie. I'm sorry." And Grant carefully pulled himself down from the horse, slouching as a sudden pain reeled within him.

Harriet rushed over to Grant, looking over the damage caused by the second attack. "You're wounded, Mr. Vickers! We need to get you treated immediately. Mr. Jasper, where are all of your medical supplies located?" Harriet asked, never turning an eye to Jasper.

Jasper smirked, holding the banjo he was playing from earlier in front of him, its round body to the ground. "Well, about that..." Jasper admitted, with an uncertainty about his usually gruff voice.

Floyd moved beside his wife, giving an additional assessment of Grant Vickers, who appeared to be in a much worse condition than Apenimon, his Indian guide. When Jasper had alluded to some mystery in respect to medical supplies, the attention of the remaining four members of the Greyson party was captured.

"About what?" Harriet was the first to ask, quickly suspicious.

"There isn't any medical supplies here at the Fort, I'm afraid." Jasper said with his eyes in a deadlock on Harriet.

"No medical supplies? However do you help those that come through here?" She wondered, her voice raising a bit as a sudden anger flashed through her, bringing a warmth to her pale cheeks.

Floyd stepped to his wife to take hold of her wrist, preventing her from charging the gunman should the situation become any worse. That, it did.

"That's not all." Chance said near to his mentor, Jasper.

The four then turned an eye to the younger of the two gunmen.

Chance continued then. "We don't have any food, either. We're bone dry out here. That's why we wanted you to come out this way, you hear? You all were stocked full of food and cattle. Well, now, I reckon, you don't have much of anything. You have the clothes on your back, wounded folks and dead folks to boot, and some Indian fella that's probably more likely to run off with the local savages than sit around and starve with the rest of us." And Chance focused in on Apenimon, who was already clearly uncomfortable upon arriving at the Fort.

"You lied to us!" Harriet screamed, prepared to charge, but it was Floyd's restriction that prevented her from lunging at the young man. "You said we would be safe! You told us to come here and leave everything!"

Jasper lifted a hand, gesturing for the woman to calm down. "Listen, it doesn't matter. If you would have stayed, you know how things would have turned out. Look at your friend there, Missy!" Jasper pointed to the wounded Grant Vickers. "You probably would have turned out just like him, or worse, maybe like that fat butcher ya'll brought along."

"You monster!" Harriet screamed, falling back into her husband's chest, where she pounded against him and whispered. "What are we to do?"

Floyd was quiet for a long time while he watched the two gunmen that invited out his party. Floyd couldn't help but feel a certain level of responsibility for the group, one he'd been proud to have for most of the travel out West, but the recent and terrible turn of events made him feel foolish. He wasn't sure what to do now, but to hold his wife.

Grant Vickers piped up. "What about hunting? Why can't we hunt out here? I mean, there has to be wild life around these parts. Why haven't you stocked anything like that?" Something wasn't adding up to the resident cartographer.

Jasper looked down to his banjo as he replied. "You seen what's out there. Yeah, so they ain't attacked us here in the post, no, but we've had plenty of men leave this place and we've had plenty of men never come back. They're out there, mister, waiting for one of us to make a bad move. When we do? Well, you're the one gettin' hunted, you understand?"

Grant turned his head, struggling through some of the pain that came with making such movements, to look outside of the gate. He swallowed hard. "They're trapping us in these gates? What, are they trying to starve us out?"

Chance shrugged. "Hard to say. We ain't ate in a while, mister. We're awfully hungry. How about that horse there? If you're stayin' here, you won't be needing that horse, will you?"

Floyd finally broke his silence, moving around his wife to leave her near Grant. "You listen here: we're not eating the horses. That's just not going to happen. We're not going to stay here for long either. If there's nothing here to eat and no way to manage food, then the only thing we can do is get out of here after tending to some of these wounds. Better we take out chances out there with the natives than staying here and dying like cowards."

Harriet's eyes lifted as she listened to her husband make his bold comments, to make decisions for the entire group. None of them, however, protested Floyd's idea.

Jasper looked back at Chance, then Chance back at Jasper. Jasper nodded, spitting out into the dirt near his feet. "Well, we ain't gonna keep you if you don't want to stay. You can stick around for the evening and if you want to leave tomorrow, well, you can leave tomorrow. We ain't responsible for whatever happens out there, though. And don't expect us to come save ya'll again. Once you're out that gate there, you're gone, ya hear?"

Floyd's authoritative disposition faded a bit as the reality of the alternative really started to set in. Still, he nodded once. He understood what was at stake. They could take their chances and leave or stay and die slowly, to wither into nothingness. He believed that they'd avoided death once by the skin of their teeth, perhaps with a bit of divine intervention, and he had faith they could do it again.

Apenimon spoke up through the rising franticness of the small group, his assertive, native-touched voice piercing through the sobs and discontent. "You were there. You were at the camp when the Shoshoni came. If it is dangerous, why were you there?" And although the questions were valid ones, and were all questions that hadn't occurred to the distraught travelers, something in Apenimon's eyes said that he knew something, like a lawyer having caught a false witness in an incredible lie.

Jasper wasted no time responding to the native guide, cool and level-headed, unlike what almost emerged from Chance's lips. "Obviously things are desperate here at the Fort. We were responding in a sort of desperate measure, Indian, but our trip out there's only confirmed that we ain't got a chance, and now we ain't got any bullets."

Chance's face became red with anger after hearing what he believed was an accusatory tone from Apenimon. The response from his elder, however, kept Chance from having to speak his own mind, which was likely to involve a harsher choice of words.

Apenimon returned to being a silent accomplice, one of the few left now, and offered no response to the elder gunman, either verbal or nonverbal. Harriet remained quiet as well, especially after having called Jasper a "monster." Grant, too, fell into the same silent void as the others, leaving the responsibility of leadership and decisions (which now were of life and death) on Floyd's shoulders.

"We'll stay tonight if you'd have us. Tomorrow we'll leave early in the morning and take our chances. Grant may have a map that shows any nearby post that could be of help. Otherwise, we still have some bullets in our weapons, and we'll find something to hunt if we must. We won't stay here and die. I don't suggest either of you do, either." Floyd said, looking between Jasper and Chance.

Jasper grinned slightly, almost sinisterly. "We ain't going anywhere. At some point you just have to accept that there aren't any more options. You can act out of desperation, or you can act out of integrity. I ain't ever been desperate and I ain't about to be."

"You both act like cowards! Lying cowards!" Harriet shouted, to be quickly quieted by her husband, who was hoping for a measure of diplomacy in a dire situation.

"That's no way to talk to men that saved your life and the lives of your friends here. Remember, we may have been a little deceptive, but if we didn't help you out, chances are, all of you would be dead right now, being dragged off to some Shoshoni camp where you'd be used in some sort of sick ritual. We were looking out for everyone back at your camp, not just ourselves. You should keep that in mind." Jasper said sternly, though with some restraint for the respect of the woman's husband. "Now, the lot of you can stay in the same cabin tonight. Use whatever you need to in order to offer aid to your friend there. I wish there was more that we could do, but there isn't. If you leave in the morning, best of luck."

With that, Jasper turned and started heading off toward his own cabin. Chance hung around for a short while longer, keeping an eye on Apenimon, as he had been since the native's comment. He, too, soon turned and followed Jasper back to the cabin, leaving the four remaining members of the Greyson party alone.

***

July 21, 1847

Poor mister Vickers has seen better days then this one. The man has laserashuns all over his body from his scufel with the saveges. Floyd and I were able to find us some sheets and some alcohol to pour over the wound. Vickers he screemed like no man Id ever herd. None of the cuts are so deep that we cant get movin in the morning. We beried Hank today near the cabin. I know hes with God now but Im fraid for our lives. Those savages are mean as any Id ever herd of and I bet they are as mad as a kicked hornets nest by now since all there frends died at the camp. I trust Floyd and mister Vickers. I think the will get us somewhere safe. The indian with us will know what plants we can eat if we need to. If anyone was left with a grupe, this is the one to be left with. This may be my last entry for a while but it aint gonna be my last entry forever.

***

Good sleep was a hard thing to come by on the frontier. After the recent raid, Harriet's heart almost stopped the second she heard the harsh rap on the cabin door before Jasper burst inside.

"We need your guns." Jasper said firmly, his eyes wide and intense, the whites of them clear with the full moon outside the door.

"Our guns? What do you mean? Are we being attacked?" Floyd asked, roused suddenly himself. He instinctively took his wife's hand in the bed beside him.

"Not yet. But your Indian guide—he's fled the Fort and we believe he might have taken something with him." Jasper motioned for Floyd to get up. A shadow crossed the door, barring the moonlight from crossing the threshold into the cabin, and it became apparent that it was cast by Chance, who was walking in a pace outside of the door, much calmer than Jasper seemed.

"What do you plan to do? And what did he take that was worth anything? We don't have food or medical supplies." Floyd said, trying to shake what was promising to be a hard sleep.

Grant Vickers stirred, too, though it took a bit to rouse him even with the intensity of the developing situation. "Apenimon took something and fled? That's impossible..." He said in disbelief.

"Out West, Mister, there ain't many things that are impossible, and what he took was the body of your friend you buried out there. Ain't nothin' but a hole in the ground now. We gettin' those guns?" Jasper asked once after sharing the horrifying bit of news.

Harriet covered her mouth in complete shock after hearing that Apenimon allegedly stole Hank's body from the ground. Her imagination began to conjure up terrible images of what Apenimon might do, or where he might have been taking the body, which she would have suspected was to the Shoshoni.

Floyd shook his head in disgust. "This is unbelievable!" He looked over to Grant, who still didn't seem to believe that accusation.

Grant Vickers rose. "If you're going after Apenimon, I'm going with you and bringing my own gun. If it needs to be fired, I'd like to be the one that decides to fire it. Otherwise, maybe this is some sort of mistake." Grant said, trying to maintain faith in his native companion.

Jasper watched Grant quietly for some time, as did Chance, who stopped in the doorway, darkening the room within. After a long breath, Jasper nodded. "Alright, if you're coming, then let's get going. You got your horse and we got ours."

Harriet called out to Grant, who was already preparing himself to leave. "Mr. Vickers, you're in no condition to be travelling about out there, as dangerous as it is! Shouldn't you just let these men take care of this problem?"

Grant looked back to Harriet while strapping on his gun belt. "I'm afraid I can't do that, Miss. Hank's my friend, you here? And so is Apenimon. This situation is unusual and I've come to find out that when situations are unusual, there's probably a logical circumstance to how they got that way." And when his belt was fastened and he moved to the door after Jasper, he finished with, "I think I'm going to figure out what's going on here."

It was the look in Grant's eyes, that same look at Apenimon gave to Jasper and Chance when Apenimon questioned why the gunman were so far from the Fort when they saved the Greyson party: it was a look of distrust for the Fort's hosts.

Even in the darkness, Harriet and Floyd were able to discern what was being communicated. It was somewhere between suspicion and fear, a wordless message that told the Greyson's that if he didn't return, that suspicion should be heightened. If he did, with the truth, such thoughts could have been laid to rest. The only way to answer the question was by committing to this act of bravery. In noticing and understanding the circumstance more clearly after that single look, Harriet merely nodded, knowing what needed to be done.

Jasper, Chance and Grant were off in no time, leaving Floyd and Harriet in the cabin, alone. They looked between each other and moved into a loving embrace, considering the possibility now that they would be alone for a long time. If things were truly as dangerous as they were told they were beyond the Fort's gates, then there was a great possibility that none of the men set out after Apenimon would return. It was a quiet evening then and a sleepless one for the rest of the night.

When the sun was threatening to rise over the horizon, both Harriet and Floyd stood outside of the cabin door, waiting for anything. The silence reminded them both of how hungry they were. The post was fortunate enough to have a decent water supply, but it seemed devoid of foodstuffs entirely. It was then, somewhere between contemplating the physical need for food and the mental hope for the safety of others that Jasper returned, alone.

Harriet covered her mouth in shock as she saw the lone man trotting into the gate. It was obvious that there was blood on his leather clothing, but it was hard to discern whether or not it was his own. Harriet rushed forth from her place her husband and cried out, "Where are the others? Is everything alright? What happened? Where is Mr. Vickers?" The questions came in rapid succession.

Floyd carefully marched to stand beside his wife as he waited for the answers himself. He worried the worst, but thought first of the considerations of treachery that seemed to be apparent in Grant's eyes when he left with the two men. Now, there was only one, and if treachery were involved, it got the best of both of them, which would be unlikely if Jasper and Chance were truly dangerous men, against one. Still, it was Grant that had the gun—or the only one that the Greyson's knew anything about.

"We found your Indian friend. He shot at us a couple of times and I'm afraid he killed your friend, Mr. Vickers." Jasper said, solemnly, with an apologetic look about his face.

Harriet stepped back slowly. Things were moving from terrible to worse. She considered in that moment the statement her husband made about Hank not being protected by God and she was starting to wonder if they were all forsaken. She couldn't imagine what they had done to warrant such a wrath, or if this was all just the work of Satan himself. Floyd cut off her thoughts with the most relevant question.

"And Chance?" He asked.

"Chance is alive. He's a little behind me. Seems your Indian friend had caught himself an animal, so I suggested Chance bring it back. He couldn't ride as quickly as I could." Jasper gave a light tug on the horse's reins and began to move forward, around the fear-frozen Harriet Greyson, who could only watch as the man passed her. Without looking their way, he said, "At least we'll have something to eat tonight. And if this situation has changed your mind about leaving, without a guide, you can stay for it and for as long as it lasts. It's a good-sized animal." And he continued, though his voice became more distant as he moved further away. "It's too bad, too. Would have been nice to have someone like that Indian fella around with those sorts of huntin' talents."

Floyd became suspicious himself, then. Another decision had to be made: whether to stay or go, now that they didn't have a guide, as Jasper pointed out. They were both also terribly hungry. Harriet came behind Floyd then and placed a hand to his shoulder.

"Floyd, my love." Her voice was tattered as she began to sob. "I don't know what we can do now. We're as good as dead if we leave the post, you know that. If we stay and try to get ourselves together, maybe we can pull through. Let things settle down for a while. There's been so much loss. We can't keep pushing on like this. I can't handle this kind of tragedy, and I can't think of you..." She stopped and moved before Floyd, cupping his unshaven face in her hands as tears continued to well in her eyes. "...I need you here with me." She finished.

Floyd's own eyes began to tear as he listened to the desperate words of the one he loved the most. He felt like an immense failure. The responsibility of the trip out West and the burden associated with it was now heavier than it had ever been and below the burden, Floyd felt crushed.

"We'll stay. We'll stay for now. I'll look over anything that Grant has left. His maps, his notes, anything, so that we can try to find our way out of this situation and be safe again. We need to be careful, Hattie. We need to keep our eyes open. Something's not right about this place and it seems Grant and the guide both knew it. Now they're both dead. I want you to stay with me, you hear? We still have that gun, don't we?" Floyd asked, all the while whispering to his wife his commands.

Harriet nodded slowly, advising him that they did still have a single weapon.

"Alright then. I want you to hold onto it, you hear? Keep it close. Hide it. Don't let them know where it is. We're going to go back to the cabin and get some work done. We're going to be alright." Floyd said, only this time he couldn't even manage the facade of certainty, especially while fighting back tears for those that were lost.

They did just that. They returned to the cabin and Floyd began combing through the many maps Grant had left behind. Floyd worked diligently to decipher the chicken-scratch handwriting of Grant's notes, looking for any sort of clue he could manage. The practice went on for much of the day, until the distinct sound of a triangle being hammered at could be heard, likely signifying that dinner was ready. Immediately, Harriet's mouth began to water and her stomach grumbled rebelliously, as it, too, was reminded that food was in order.

Floyd took a deep breath and whispered to his wife, though he was certain no one was around. "You have the gun?"

Harriet nodded, pulling up the ends of her dress to show it was stuffed safely into a tight garter she kept around her thigh. Floyd smiled and took his wife's hand before heading over to the main cabin in the Fort.

***

"We should bless the meal before we eat it, don't you all think?" It was less of a challenge for Harriet to think about giving a moment for God despite all of the recent trauma. In any case, she saw this small opportunity as a blessing, a gift from God in the bleakest of moments in her life.

Jasper and Chance didn't say anything in dispute of the consideration and lowered their heads as they all stood around the small, wooden table. They clasped their hands together and waited for the benediction of the unlikely meal to begin. Floyd did the same and closed his eyes, waiting for his wife to give the prayer.

"Dear God. We want to thank you for this meal and we want to thank you for your continued protection of us that are still here. We know that you have a divine plan, one that we aren't meant to understand, but we know that always you are doing your work by grand design." As Harriet continued with the vibrant prayer, Floyd felt a subconscious buzz about his face. He opened his eyes in the middle of the prayer to look across the table, to see that both Jasper and Chance were staring directly at him, both with a twisted smile on their face. Floyd swallowed hard and closed his eyes once again, only more tightly this time, until the prayer was over. When the prayer was completed, Floyd and Harriet both finished with a conclusive "Amen," while Jasper and Chance simply sat in front of their plates.

Floyd thought to break up the discomfort from the look a moment prior. "So, what sort of animal was this? It smells delicious."

Jasper didn't waste any time cutting into the meat on his plate, stabbing it with his fork and shoving it into his mouth. "You're 'bout the most questioning man I've ever met, Floyd Greyson. You ain't eatin' in what? Two days? And you're concerned now about what it is? It's meat!" And he laughed, nudging Chance at his left, who also laughed and chewed away.

Floyd grinned a bit, still very uncomfortable. "Right. I don't think I could learn anything that would make it any less appetizing." And he cut into the meat and took a bite. The meat had a sort of greyish tone about it, similar to veal or lamb when cooked. It tasted very much of veal, but Floyd wouldn't be able to identify what animal it really was, and suspected it was likely an animal he was less familiar with from the foreign parts of the country. "It's very good."

Harriet took a bite herself and smiled. She took in a breath, then allowed the warm, steamy food to travel down her throat to her grumbling belly. Harriet did her best to remain as ladylike as she could, despite her will to eat ravenously after having gone without for so long. After the initial silence necessary for getting a little food down passed, Harriet asked, "Why haven't the Shoshoni come into the Fort? It seems like that would be something they would do, especially if they attacked our camp."

Chance shook his head, cutting away the sinewy pieces of meat, one by one. "Nah. Those savages are afraid of our weapons. I don't think they know how many we have, or don't have, and decided the best thing they can do is pick us off while we're outside of our gates, as armed as men can be away from a more permanent armament."

Harriet nodded, not thinking much about the answer, but supposing it made sense.

Floyd chimed in, despite being called out as someone who asks too many questions. "And there were many people here at Fort Bleck before it became just the two of you?"

Jasper nodded, swallowing a hunk of meat. "Maybe fifteen, steady. Slowly dwindled down. People would disappear in the night, either to run off or maybe they were taken. Some never returned from hunts or any trip outside of the walls. Eventually it was just us here. We had provisions, you know, but eventually those things run out. Anyone coming through that might have given us a hand, well, you see what's probably been happening to them. We've become isolated. We've written letters to the government, asking for assistance and all, but it doesn't seem any of them get out. Or, maybe no one receivin' them cares enough to do anything."

Floyd thought about which of the two it likely was. The Western frontier was a place that existed in isolation. Those that dared it accepted its features. He sighed and remained silent after the question, becoming thoughtful. They all became quiet for a long time. Nothing else strange happened there at the dinner table, and when they were done, fat and happy for the first time in a long time, the Greyson's returned to their cabin.

"They gave me the strangest look, Hattie. You should have seen it. They may have lowered their heads for God, but they weren't praying with us. I can promise you that." Floyd confessed what he'd seen at the dinner table as he rolled over in his bed, tired after not having slept much the night before, or the night before that. He was exhausted, made even more lethargic by finally having something to eat, and something hearty and full like a slab of meat.

Harriet sighed. She glanced to the gun on the small table beside the bed, right beneath a simple, white candle flickering back and forth even with the absence of wind. "These men are probably as lost as any, out here, under the conditions they're in. God will find a way into their hearts when they're ready to open them." Always faithful and always devout.

Floyd closed his eyes, slowed his breathing and thought about her words as he began to drift to sleep, and then was, heavily. Harriet smiled to her husband and watched him for a few minutes before she leaned over to blow out the candle. She, too, fell asleep promptly.

That's when something unexpected occurred.

What may have been expected at this point was that a person's sleep was never a certain thing. It was a gift that came when the many worldly disturbances abound managed to keep themselves away for a long enough time for a person to rest. The past few nights were unrelenting with their disturbances, but the one that roused Harriet Greyson this night were different than the disturbances before. This one, for one, wasn't immediately threatening. There wasn't an armed native man seeking sacrifices for a ritual standing over her and her husband, nor was there a frantic American frontiersman shouting about a deviant guide; tonight it was the sound of chopping.

Harriet sat up in bed, listening as the sound echoed in the middle of the night.

Chop. Chop. Chop. Chop.

The successive pounding reverberated through Harriet's body and soul. She leaned over and whispered toward Floyd.

"Floyd." She said with a soft urgency in her voice. "Floyd, do you hear that?"

Floyd responded with a sort of incoherent grunt and started snoring loudly. Her attempts did nothing to wake him. Harriet looked down to her exhausted husband and considered investigating the matter on her own, something her husband clearly would have disapproved of, but Harriet hadn't given him the chance to do so.

Harriet carefully swung her legs out of the bed and stepped onto the cool, wooden floorboards. She dressed herself and picked up the gun that sat on the corner of the table beside the bed. Harriet quietly moved across the room and opened the door to hear the sound grow louder now. Her eyes cast back to her sleeping husband, still completely unaware of the strange circumstance, before Harriet slipped out of the cabin to move toward the source of the sound.

Harriet remained near to the walls of the cabin as she tried to identify the source of the sound. In her hand, she held fast to the loaded weapon, prepared to fire the thing (or was prepared in theory) if anything should have gone awry. What Harriet expected was that the sound would be coming from some sort of late night work on behalf of Jasper or Chance, and not something worse, such as a raiding tribe trying to hack away at walls with a hatchet. The sound seemed closer when she rounded the main cabin, which housed Jasper and Chance, and which was the same place Harriet and Floyd had shared dinner with the two men earlier. Cautiously along the walls, she turned the corner to reveal what was making the sound.

Chop. Chop. Chop. Chop.

Each successive strike of that cleaver came down to further sever a piece of meat from the dismembered and disfigured human body, still in whatever clothes the person had been wearing when likely murdered. Chance took his time, even whistling as he worked, bringing that sharpened cleaver down slightly below the carcass's shoulder until the limb fell away like a cut branch from a tree. Blood spattered and shot about Chance's face, which didn't seem to make much of a difference from the moment that Harriet had first seen the image. By the time she arrived, he was already thoroughly painted in the crimson fluid, a sort of imagery that made the war-paint of the raiding party from the camp seem like children's finger paint.

Harriet could not help but feel an urgency to scream aloud, but she prevented herself be covering her mouth firmly with her free hand, using the other to clench her weapon as tightly as she could. This restraint on her part gave a moment later when a particularly grotesque sound echoed from behind the main cabin, before a silence and a sudden, unexpected rolling of a man's head happened to halt somewhere near the corner of the building, near to where Harriet stood in hiding. The face of the eternally terrified, decapitated head revealed the identity of the carcass being cut asunder: it was Grant Vickers, a family friend and the Greyson party's cartographer. No longer could Harriet stand by, nor could she compel herself to return to her cabin to wake her husband. A rush of uncontrollable emotion surged through her body as her face burned with fear, anger and confusion. She turned the corner suddenly and pointed the gun out in front of her, with her eyes targeting the blood-soaked frontiersman, Chance. Chance looked up to notice the woman, a cleaver in one hand, a severed arm in the other. Suddenly, he lifted the cleaver high into the air in preparation to send it Harriet's way but in a single, perfect shot, a bullet went flailing from the end of the pistol, through the thin epidermal and vascular tissue at the skull, shattering bone, sending brain matter askew within his head, all before breaking free and sailing into the wall behind Chance. As the electrical signals in Chance's head fizzled, his body collapsed to the ground amid the violent turmoil of his previous action, before ushering an unbearable silence.

Harriet's hands became limp and her lip began to quiver, involuntarily now whispering to the one she claimed, "Oh God. Oh God. Oh no..." And as it would with shock, everything came rushing in like a river from a broken levee. The silence did not last long. A sound was heard from the front of the main cabin, which likely signified Jasper was awake and heard the noise. Another sound came from the cabin Harriet and Floyd slept in before she woke. "Oh no!" Harriet shouted.

"Harriet? Harriet?! Are you out there? Jasper. Jasper, have you seen my wife? I think I just heard a—" but his voice was cut off with a second blast of a weapon.

Harriet covered her mouth once again, restraining a scream. Tears welled in her eyes and she shook her head in disbelief, clutching the warm-barreled weapon to her chest like a prized possession. Harriet couldn't believe what happened. A moment ago, she put a bullet through a man's head, only to hear the gunshot from the other side of the cabin that likely ended her husband's life. Then she heard footsteps.

Harriet ran behind the chopping table, now covered with gore and blood. She ducked down behind it, peering fearfully around the side, her entire body shaking from head to toe, making it almost impossible to hold (or aim) the weapon in her hand. Over and over, prayers were muttered internally, asking for any semblance of grace from God, but she hadn't heard a reply in what now seemed like forever. The footsteps stopped near the corner of the cabin, where Harriet first observed Chance chopping Grant Vickers to pieces. She tried to hold her breath, to calm herself in any way she could, so that he wouldn't know exactly where she was, but it was obvious that Jasper was aware.

"Now, now, Ms. Greyson. Ain't any reason to be shootin' anybody. We're all friends here." Jasper said in a cool, coaching tone.

Harriet, a passionate woman, couldn't contain herself and shouted, though she remained "safely" behind the chopping table. "What did you do to Floyd, you monster!" It was now the second time Harriet called Jasper such, only she didn't realize the level of monstrosity about the two gunmen of Fort Bleck when she said it the first time.

What sounded like the cocking of a gun was heard around the corner. "Well, I'm afraid Floyd had to die." Which was telling of the sort of friendship Jasper suggested. "Ain't fair, I don't think, two against one like that. I mean, I'm guessing Chance is dead around this corner right here, but I ain't gonna peek around to see, because I think you might just try to put a bullet between my eyes." The words were still calm. Unusually calm.

"You're right I'll put a bullet through your head, you son of a bitch!" She shouted a curse, which was unusual of her, but her nerves were uncontrollable. Tears poured down her face and now she was breathing between sobs uncontrollably, thinking about her husband laying in the dirt in front of their cabin. As carefully as she could, she watched the corner of the cabin where she suspected he was, waiting for anything to come out so that she could unload the remaining five bullets.

"Well, seems we got ourselves a bit of a Mexican standoff then, huh? I don't very well think I can let you live, Miss. It just ain't right, you bein' a murderer and all. Your god. He don't like those kinds of people, I hear. I hear he sends 'em straight to hell. You ready to go to hell, Hattie?" Jasper said, provoking her further by bringing God into it, as well as using the nickname Floyd used for her.

"My God's a God of justice. And he'll see you get it, too." And she slowly aimed her weapon toward the corner of the cabin and waited.

"Yeah? Well, I think that's where you're wrong, Miss Greyson. I don't think you're god's been 'round much at all. He ain't here right now and he ain't gonna save you, either. You do have one thing right, though. I am a monster. You ever heard of Dzoavits?" Jasper asked.

There was a sudden shake in Harriet's hand, but she steadied herself. She remembered the word from the raid at the camp, the word the raiders called out when the two gunmen arrived, and the same word that struck terror into them. She said nothing.

"I didn't think so. Dzoavits is a demon, you see. A demon that the natives from these parts believe to be pretty evil. Well, they're right." And Jasper stuck a gun around the corner of the cabin and fired twice, blindly, in the direction of the woman. One bullet struck the table, another the body atop it, sending a piece of the corpse down on top of Harriet.

Harriet shrieked and fired two bullets back in instinct, but merely managed to hit the building, leaving her with three bullets left in the cylinder. Her praying continued, only it had now become external and verbal.

The cocking of a weapon was heard again, likely after Jasper reloaded, which spoke of another lie. It seemed that Jasper and Chance wanted to get a hold of the Greyson party's weapons, not because they needed them, but because they wanted the group to be helpless. At some point, Jasper and Chance wanted the Greyson's alive, but it seemed that time was over.

"You see, Dzoavits is known for takin' the form of a human or animal. The demon feeds on humans, like you and Floyd over there, or your friend Mr. Vickers." And the head that landed near Harriet earlier came flying back toward her, hitting the top of the chopping table before sailing over her head. If anything was fortunate out of the situation, it was that when the decapitated head of Grant landed, it wasn't staring at her this time. "It was pretty good, huh? That meal we had? You really seemed to enjoy it, Ms. Greyson."

Harriet slunk back securely behind the table as she listened to the cold, sinister words creep around the cabin's corner. For moment she didn't understand, but then she eyed the back of Grant's bloody head, then looked up to his dismembered body, thought of Chance using the meat cleaver to dismember his body and it all came together in a single shot: Harriet and Floyd were fed a person.

"N-No. No." She shook her head, keeling to the side as she felt bile rise in her stomach and she vomited forcefully to her side behind the symphony of Jasper's laughter. As Harriet heaved and coughed, Jasper spoke again.

"Ain't no point in killing me, Ms. Greyson. Ain't gonna make a difference. You may kill this body and all, but I ain't goin' anywhere. This is where I belong and where I'll keep belonging. Who knows? Maybe Dzoavits could even find a place in you."

Harriet tried to compose herself, breathing through a throat thoroughly raw. She peeked around the table again to see that Jasper was doing the same and immediately, before he did, fired two more shots in his direction, one barely whizzing by his head, while the other was less accurate. She then had a single bullet, as Jasper ducked away, safe again.

Laughter rang out again, as the man, or whatever he was, seemed unfazed by the attempt at killing him. "What's that now? You got one bullet in your chamber unless you stuffed a couple extra bullets somewhere when you wandered on out here. You still prayin' to that god of yours?"

Harriet quelled her sadness and defeat. She took a deep breath and waited. She had one bullet and she'd be damned, literally, if she didn't put this one on the mark. She waited and waited through what seemed like an eternal fit of laughter from the man around the corner. When it became silent, Jasper maneuvered quickly from behind the cabin, running out into the open. He fired once and missed. He fired again as she came into view from his new angle, and struck the dirt beside Harriet's foot. Harriet's heart pounded nearly out of her chest as the barrel and sight of her gun followed the sidestepping gunman and when she felt that a twitch, right after Jasper's second shot, her finger inadvertently pulled the trigger, sending her very last bullet through Jasper's wicked heart, blasting him to the ground in a limp roll from his gained momentum.

Slowly, with the support of Harriet's shaking legs, she stood without an ounce of grace. She dropped the gun that was now useless to the ground beside Grant's severed head and walked around the table. From the ground, Harriet lifted the cleaver that Chance used to dismember her friend. She walked carefully across the bloodied dirt clumps that accumulated around the chopping table in the direction of Jasper's body, which laid on the ground curled and facing away from her. Her breathing intensified once again as she neared the body and she lifted the cleaver high into the air. "Here's your God-given justice, you beast!" And she lowered herself over him and swung the cleaver down into his skull, over and over again, sending blood and tissue into the air around her, onto her clothes and face, to her lips and eyes, but she did not relent. The swinging didn't stop until she could no longer hold the meat cleaver and then she fell over into the dirt, crying uncontrollably into the night.

***

November 5, 1847

The most darling family has shown up here at Fort Bleck. Seems that in those parties that are stuck travelling in these later months have no choice but to manage some sort of accommodation. The world out there isn't a forgiving one. I've taken a special liking to a young boy of theirs. His name's Floyd, which reminds me of my husband. I miss that man. We talk and talk, Floyd and me, most evenings. Tonight, I have a special surprise for the family. Things have been slow here and we're low on provisions at the Fort, but tonight we're going to be eating just fine. Tonight they're going to eat the best meal they've ever had. Floyd. What a darling little child, that one. What a darling little child. A sweet child.

Sincerely,

Harriet

RETURN TO THE TABLE OF CONTENTS
Preview of Amid the Recesses: A Short Story Collection of Fear

Humansville

"Issat it?"

I stared over the assortment of items I placed on the counter in front of the shopkeep. A coke, a mostly melted candy bar, a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. It was hot in the small, deteriorating shop. The windows were glossed with a sheen of residue from long exposure to the wind and sun. Many of the windows were cracked or boarded up. I wondered how many customers frequented the little shop. The desperate ones, I bet.

I should have been wary. The gas pumps didn't have a slot for a credit card and the display was analog, with flipping white numbers and small, square backgrounds in contrasting black. The pumps were rusted to hell and took a small eternity to fuel the SUV. For those desperate enough to step inside of the decaying shop, there would be an opportunity to meet the unusual old man behind the counter. The old man's eyes were white with cataracts, but it was apparent that he wasn't blind. His eyes followed me in the same suspicious way I'd seen the Asian attendants watch black folks in the inner city corner stores. I was an outsider.

The old man's head was bald, but he wore a thick beard on his face. The beard hung down to the middle of his chest, riddled with grey and dingy black, as wild as vine. He wore suspenders that rose over a red and white checkered shirt. The frayed suspenders kept his pants up to the bottom of his sunken chest, giving the impression he had a tiny torso. It was hard to gauge his height as he sat in a splintered rocking chair that crunched the dirt under it with each restless sway.

I noticed a shotgun hanging right behind the old man's head. The gun was conspicuously well kept in comparison to the rest of the store. It gave me an uneasy feeling, one I tried to dissipate with small talk.

"Nice gun." I said.

The old man didn't reply. He looked at my pitiful selection of items on the counter top in front of him, eyelevel with his rocking chair.

"Severn niney nine. Wit gas dats forty severn niney nine." The old man said, in words so thickly accented, they sounded foreign.

"Service with a smile." I mumbled as I reached for my wallet. I hoped my sarcasm masked my mumbling, because I immediately regretted saying anything. I placed the money on the counter with exact change and gave a smile. "Thanks for the help. Can I have a bag?"

The man stared and was unresponsive. He may not have been full blind, but I couldn't rule out deafness. I gathered my items and headed out the door. I carried food cradled in my arms like a nomadic cavewoman.

Outside, a group of pimply-faced teens stood around my vehicle. They looked into the windows and rode around the new wax-job with their cheap, hand-me-down bikes. It seemed the kids had never seen anything like it. Nothing in the town looked like it was made after 1950. I stopped a short distance from them, peeled open my melted candy bar wrapper and began to eat while I waited for them to notice me. The kids' fascination kept me waiting for some time. If I was a snake.

One of the kids noticed.

"Oh, shit. Hey Mister. Nice car." Obscenities from a teen boy. It was cliché. I was surprised he got out the "oh" before the "shit." When I was their age, I spoke in curse.

After I lapped up the chocolate on the metallic innards of the candy wrapper, I said, "It's an SUV. Sport utility vehicle." I chewed pointlessly.

The kids stared at me in a way reminiscent of the old man from the shop. Their eyes seemed fearful and aggressive, and I could tell their hormone-riddled minds tried to size up an enemy they couldn't understand. They seemed perplexed by my correction. I waited for a response and scavenged for leftover chocolate on the film wrapper.

"What you got in the box there?" The pudgy one asked. He was a blobby, repulsive kid swallowing the bike under him.

I felt inclined to answer. "I'm a salesman." I doubted that excuse would send them scrambling off before they asked more questions.

"Yeah?" The second kid to speak up was red-haired and freckle-faced. He seemed less timid than the fat one. "What do you sell?"

I shrugged. "Are you buying?"

Blank eyes.

"I didn't think so. How about you kids get going, huh? I'm leaving." I walked toward the driver's side and popped finger after finger into my mouth to clean them. I tossed the wrapper on the ground. It didn't make a difference in the neglected little town. The main road was littered with soda cans and beer bottles. Dust blew the trash into dried, stringy plants, barbed throughout. Hundreds of plastic bags waved like tiny white flags that surrendered to the wind or to Humansville's condition. The steady wind blew a fragrance of cow shit and sulfur.

The kids rode off and looked back. They chattered between one another. I heard one say, "I bet it's a dead body!" and I laughed. It would have stunk, I thought.

I got into the car and tried to start the engine. I heard a reeling, a squeal and a pop. The SUV's gauges rose then fell, like a dying person taking a last breath. Smoke rose from my hood. I watched the stream of grey smoke wisp with the wind, dragged along its current.

"Fuck me." I reached beneath the dash and popped the hood. I left the SUV and stepped to the front of the car. I lifted the hood and looked inside. The hair on my neck rose as I observed the robotic maze of wiring and tubing, all of which meant nothing to me. An uncomfortable feeling drew me to turn around. I looked through the cracked windows of the shop and saw the old, white-eyed man watching me from inside with a rotten smile on his face.

"Yeah, real funny, asshole." I turned back to the SUV and investigated the source of the smoke. The grey washed over the entire surface of the SUV's innards like a graveyard mist. I didn't know a thing about fixing SUV's. I peered toward the old man and shook my head. Round two.

I went back into the shop where the old man rocked and smiled at my misfortune. I remained polite. "May I please borrow your phone? No service out here." I could have said a thousand other things.

The old man stared. Awkward eyeballing matches seemed common to this place. I imagined it took a minute for my language to filter through the brains of the inbred morons that called Humansville home.

"Ain'n no phone."

"What?".

"Here ain'n no phone, son." He said again.

I did hear right. "So, what am I supposed to do? Rot?"

The old man's smile faded with the question. A gruff, guttural sound coughed from his mouth. His eyes turned back outside as rocks and asphalt shot out from spinning tires. I followed the old man's gaze and noticed a police cruiser. Lucky me, I thought. I left the store without another word for the old man. An officer stepped out of the cruiser as I moved through the threshold of the shop's door, a door that hung by the top hinge and threatened collapse. The police officer was tall, at least six and a half feet so, and his large, wide-brimmed hat and mirrored aviator shades made him more imposing. He wore a pressed, tan and brown uniform. The sun high at this hour reflected from his sheriff's badge perfectly.

"Afternoon, sheriff. Hey, listen, I'm having some tro—" The officer lifted a finger to cut me off—a proverbial shut-the-fuck-up—to which I obliged.

The officer continued to the front of the SUV, long legs moving him forward in unnatural strides, like a circus performer on stilts. A blue pinstripe ran down the side of his pant legs in a clear contrast to the rest of his earthy uniform. He bent down over the engine and took a quick whiff. The officer pendulum-bobbed back and forth for a minute while he inspected the guts of the vehicle, then rose. His thin, cracked lips parted with all the trouble of someone who hadn't spoken in ages.

"You got a radiator leak. You blew a gasket, I bet. That'll cost you a bit to fix, mister." A dark brow rose and he tilted his head my way. He peered at me from over the crest of those mirrored glasses. I saw my pitiful stance in the reflection. I saw my inadequacy.

My jaw dropped from being cut off and kept slack with the bad news. The SUV was in trouble and I was stuck in this Podunk town. I knew the repair costs would be horrendous because I was stuck without the repair, there likely wasn't another repair shop within a hundred miles, and I didn't know a thing about repairing vehicles. I took in an agonized breath. I watched myself fold in dismay through the mirror of the officer's glasses.

"I can give you a ride over to Miss Judith's place. Her husband, Mortimer, knows a thing or two about fixin' cars. Maybe he can do something." His dried lips went thinner and his broad arms crossed. He waited for my decision, but showed no sign of impatience. He had all the time in the world. I didn't have a choice.

"I suppose there isn't a Meineke or a Ford dealership around here?" I barely got the question out before the sheriff started to laugh, a loud, booming laugh, primed by the mile-long abyss inside of him.

"How about you get in the cruiser? I'll take you out to Judith's." The officer went back toward the driver's side of the cruiser. He didn't wait for an answer because he knew what my answer was. "Ford dealership. Oh, that's a good one," the sheriff said and he laughed on as he rounded the cruiser.

I looked toward the backseat of the broken SUV. I couldn't leave without my trunk. I ran over, opened the back door and dove in. I tried to get my arms around the broad container. My fingers tucked beneath the leather bands that kept the trunk together and searched for leverage.

"Sheriff—" I shouted from near the SUV, "I need to take this trunk with me. It has valuables in it. I'd rather not leave it here. Heat sensitive, you know?" I offered the sheriff a crooked smile. I pulled out the bulky storage trunk and was nearly thrown to the ground. My trouble was made worse by the sheriff's next question.

"Think someone in my town's gonna steal your stuff, mister?" The sheriff's face was stone sober.

I thought to drop the chest and start running down the road. Maybe it was time to escape—to surrender myself. I didn't need the SUV, did I? I held onto the trunk, bent my knees and tried to rest it on something, or gain an advantage in a situation that was becoming desperate.

"N-No! No, I don't think that. I would just hate for something to be ruined, you know?" I moved toward the cruiser and swayed back and forth blind. The officer was kind enough to open the back door. I shoved the trunk inside. The trunk's brass corner dug into the sun-bleached leather of the backseat. With a few adjustments of the chest, I covered the scratches from view. I had enough financial problems.

The officer returned to the front seat. As the officer sat, the cruiser leaned to the left as the suspension gave toward his side. I heard the sizzle of the warm leather seats against the officer's sweaty back. He didn't flinch or readjust. I reconsidered going along with him. I watched his wet, hairy neck through the flaking, black, chicken wire grate separating the front seat from the backseat. I watched the infinite reflection of the officer's mirrored sunglasses through the rearview mirror, reminding me of a carnival funhouse. I observed the officer's unusual stillness as he waited for me to sit beside him. I didn't have a choice. I did, however, have my belongings.

I opened the front door and sat down beside the sheriff. There wasn't as much radio equipment in the front seat as I'd expected. I'd been in a few cruisers when I was younger, for ride-alongs and never for deviance. The interior leather stung me with its heat, which I imagined had gathered for years. My skin nearly fused to the leather and was saved only by instinct. I tossed and turned in the seat until the heat dissipated enough to allow me to relax. My relaxation, however, was relative only to the seat. The situation was uncomfortable. I closed the door and the officer pressed on the gas. We rode out of the parking area in front of the store and onto the empty highway. In the passenger side mirror, my SUV was swallowed by the brown dust that pervaded the place like a biblical plague. The consumption that played out above the "objects are closer than they appear" warning made me nervous.

The drive along the highway was mostly silent. I tried to start a conversation.

"So, nice town, huh? Good people." I waited for something. Anything. I watched the sweat run down the sheriff's forehead. I saw the salty droplets weave in and around his wrinkles. I saw him sneer without looking at me. His voice churned from deep down within him, like stone on sandpaper.

"Humansville's a nice enough town. Don't always take too kindly to outsiders." The sheriff said.

"Really? I didn't notice."

The sheriff looked my way, over the frame of the mirrored aviators. He didn't say anything and we swept back into a painful, ear-ringing silence. Ten minutes later, he turned onto an unpaved country road. C.R. something. It didn't make a difference. If something terrible happened out this far, there was no chance for salvation.

A mailbox was staked into the dry dirt right at the intersection with block letters stuck to the aluminum siding that read "Orson." I assumed it was the last name of Mortimer, the mechanic, and Judith, his pleasant wife that was worth mentioning before her husband. The country road was less forgiving than the pot-holed highway leading to it. With the bumps in the dirt road, eating the melted candy bar became a bad idea.

A mile or two down the road, we pulled out in front of a plantation-style home, with a pillared doorway and windows displayed across the second floor that gave the blue and white-trimmed home facial-type characteristics. I stared up at the house at it stared back at me, each of us assessing one another. The house, like everything in Humansville, was outdated and ill-maintained. Vines grew from the ground and wrapped around the house, each like slithering fingers from the earth gripping the structure, waiting for the right time to pull it down.

The cruiser turned and parked. The sheriff shut off the engine and asked, "Have I seen you before, mister?"

I shook my head, caught off guard by the question. Seen me before, he asked? In this place? I knew that if I'd come this way once, I'd never come again.

"I've never been here before, no." I confessed.

The officer stared at me unconvinced. I felt at a disadvantage as he stared into my eyes and watched the sweat bead at my forehead, leaving me only the image of myself and my pitifulness in his reflective lenses. He opened the car door, rendering a hellish screech of metal on metal from an under-oiled hinge. The sound sent me back. I was surprised there was anywhere left to go. The door slammed and I sat there in the relentless heat, with the looming stench of my own body, the officer's cheap cologne, what could have been vomit from old arrests, and an air freshener shaped like a tree that read, "Have a nice day!" long overdue for a changing.

I was a mess. The unsettling atmosphere grew worse when I noticed a teenage girl in a blue dress swinging outside on the broad, wooden porch. The girl's blonde hair curled at her forehead. Her eyes were as blue as the dress she wore. The girl stood, either out of excitement, respect, or fear, as the sheriff approached. I opened the passenger door of the cruiser to let in the Missouri heat and humidity, which felt temperate and comfortable in comparison to the cruiser. I waved like an idiot, which caught the girl's attention, and caused her to step to the peak of the four stairs that led to the entrance of the old house.

"Whatcha got, sheriff?" She laughed while looking my way and pointing. No one taught the girl that pointing was bad manners. I looked off as I was singled out and blushed. I noticed a vehicle graveyard, with cars and trucks ranging from several decades old to others more recent. The newer cars bore a polished gleam subdued only by the tickling of high grass around their tires and the dust from the wind. Maybe they were vehicles Mr. Mortimer Orson was working on. None of the hoods were opened and there were weeds nearly as high as I was growing around each of the vehicles. Mr. Mortimer could have been a collector. He collected cars. I imagined he collected bodies out in the woods. People graveyards. I thought about my trunk and what the kids said as they rode off.

"Lacy, run inside and get your pa. Tell him there's a gentleman out here that'd like to have him look over his car." The officer instructed.

The girl nodded and rushed into the house, shouting with a voice that died like an echo in a canyon, "Pa! Someone's here for—"

"It's an SUV. Sport Utility Vehicle." It didn't occur to me that correcting him, as opposed to the children at the old man's shop, was a bad idea until after I did it. The sheriff looked back my way and I felt like an ant under a magnifying glass. The heat didn't subside until he looked away and lost interest.

I took time to notice the gun in his holster. The gun was larger than those I'd seen police officers with in the past. The barrel seemed roughly eight inches in length. My attention was drawn away from the weapon when I heard the creak of old hinges and worn springs from the door of the house. A short, round man stepped out and allowed the screen door, with its grey matting torn and pockmarked, slam behind him. He wore an under shirt that was stained with blotches of brown and red, too short to keep from exposing the underside of his enormous belly. His pants, unable to properly reach his waist, fumbled around him, held only by the pinch of his stomach against his groin. The man used a soiled, red cloth to wipe at his hands as he approached me and the officer. The man's lips were buried behind a neglected mustache, but the twitching and turning of the antenna-like wiry hairs suggested he was preparing to speak.

"I heard this fella needs some help." He laughed before breaking into a smoker's cough. He hacked away, which made a response impossible. The officer and I waited for the man to collect himself. I assumed it was over when he forced the air from his lungs into his swampy throat and launched a mucus wad the size of an infant's hand into an unsuspecting blade of tall grass. He continued before we could intervene, while his voice was still laced with the thick obstruction in his throat. "So bad you couldn't even bring it out? That's rough." He extended a crusted, dirty hand my way. "I'm Mortimer Orson."

Mortimer's hands were bronzed, as if dipped into a molten furnace. His fingernails were outlined with a deeper red, speckled and jagged on the tips from biting or hard work. Every crease in his stubby hand and short fingers was a bit darker than the rest of his skin, but none of it was natural.

By then I knew I had hesitated for an awkward length of time. The hesitation caused Mortimer to look queerly toward the sheriff and bob his hand up and down, as he struggled with the weight of his own appendage and the embarrassment of not having it met. The sheriff watched me with skepticism and judged me. I hated the appraisal. I was breaking a moral convention by not shaking a man's hand when it was offered. In a place like this, the convention seemed to have no boundary based on hygiene.

Mortimer said, "Oh, com'on. Ain't seen a little blood before? I was skinning a deer in the back. It won't hurt you. All dried up anyway."

Skinning a deer, I thought. My imagination was flooded with images of a diabolical Mortimer chopping up the drivers of the vehicles littering his front lawn. I considered the possibility of being next.

I shook Mortimer's hand despite my instinct to avoid it. My mind, pummeled with scenes of screaming cityfolk and dismembered body parts, couldn't develop a clever lie in time to get out of the handshake. As my hand shook his, I felt the bloody crust on his palm balling up and flaking away between our palms, sending a plague snow down to the ground between us. I liked things clean.

"I'm Porter Jennings. Porter is fine." The handshake went on too long. I tried to pull back, but Mortimer held firm to my hand. The conversation continued with my hand in his. I felt the heat rising between our palms and the mutual blood on our hands returning to life.

"Good to meet you, Port!"

Porter, I thought.

"So, where's your car at now?"

Sport Utility Vehicle, I thought.

I felt Mortimer clutch my hand tighter. I felt like his hand was around my neck.

"Back at the gas station in town." I said.

"Alright. Let me get my tools and I'll head out that way. Com'on inside the house, Port. We ain't the type here to keep people standing outside."

You probably keep them hanging from hooks inside, I thought.

"My wife Judith makes some of the best damn sweet tea you ever drank! A southern specialty. She's cooking up soup now, too." Mortimer rambled. "By the looks of you, Port, you ain't from the country. A city boy, through and through. Can tell by your hairdo. You won't see a hairdo like that around here, no."

I couldn't contemplate what Mortimer could have meant by my "city boy hairdo." My hair was long, well-kept, and not a mullet—it was therefore "not country." Mortimer released my hand to retreat toward the house. I could breathe again. I didn't want to look at my hand or what Mortimer had exposed it to. I made a note to get a shot once back in civilization.

I followed Mortimer and left the sheriff standing in the Orson's overgrown front lawn. Mortimer shouted suddenly, which caused my heart to feel like it was rubbed against a cheese grater.

"Judith! Judith, pour some of that sweet tea, will you?" He looked back at me with a hand on the open screen door. "You want ice?" He didn't wait for my answer. "And pour it over some ice! The good ice!" Mortimer went inside. I wondered about the kind of people that had good ice and bad ice. The tight springs of the screen door, likely the only thing new on the house, pulled the door shut with a clap—a meager applause for a pitiful show.

I stepped onto the first step leading to the patio with all the indignation of a guiltless man heading to the electric chair. I turned back to the sheriff in a hopeful plea that he'd stay. Despite the sheriff's presence being uncomfortable, he was a sentinel, in theory designed to abide by the law. Without him, I was on my own and things could turn out any number of ways. I thought about meat hooks and shallow forest graves. I thought about my trunk.

The sheriff opened his cruiser's car door and closed it once his massive frame adjusted into it. The engine started with a grumble. As I prepared to enter the house behind Mortimer and subject myself to any other horrors associated with the Orson residence, I realized I'd forgotten my trunk in the cruiser. I leapt from the step and rushed toward the cruiser while waving my hands like some novice animal trainer. I saw the officer adjust at his right, which looked an awful lot like he was reaching for his weapon. My franticness subdued with the alarm of potentially being shot and I shook my hands in front of my face as a cautionary measure. I imagined how I looked, sweating, confused, hand bloodied, and entirely out of place with my "city boy hairdo." While at the side of the cruiser, I pointed to the trunk in the backseat. The sheriff nodded once and turned away. I opened the back door and struggled to get my arms around the bulky wooden trunk again.

"Almost forgot my trunk." I gave the officer a crooked smile as I pulled the trunk from the backseat, exposing the scratched leather. The trunk crashed down on the ground and rolled over, flattening a forest of tall grass. The trunk remained closed. I placed the toe of my shoe against the trunk and felt better.

All the while the officer observed my desperate behavior. His nose twitched and he sniffed out my fear and hopelessness. Those wide, reflective lenses, something I'd now imagined as alien eyes, peering into my darkest recesses to uncover weakness, stared and stared. With a sharp cock of his neck to the left and a subsequent pop, the officer looked away.

"Close the door." He said while staring out of the cruiser's clouded windshield. I was certain I could hear the bob and sway of the little tree air freshener as the wind blew into the cruiser through the open back door. Have a nice day!

I obliged and closed the door. The tires of the cruiser dug into the earth and spit dirt to its rear. Soon after, the car drove back down the long dirt road leading to the Orson's. I watched the officer in the rearview, watched those alien eyes, and knew they were watching me back, waiting for me to make a last-minute wrong move so he could stick that eight-inch barrel in my face and blow my city boy brains out the back of my head.

"Thanks, asshole." I whispered. I saw brake lights and regretted whispering. The cruiser never stopped, however.

I stared at my toppled, leather-bound trunk for some time, and tried to devise a means of getting it off of the ground and into the house. I rolled the broad trunk over and upright. My fingers slipped into the leather belts that encompassed the container. I hoisted the trunk up against my chest.

"Don't lift with your back." I told myself with a tightened throat. I'd heard it more than once. I fumbled through the high grass like a cartoon character, while trying to get to the house. When I reached the stairs, I pushed my toe out in front of me, feeling for the vertical rise of each step, trying, to no avail, to look around the bulky object in my arms. One step. Two steps. Three steps. I hadn't killed myself yet. Four steps. A foul smell crept from the house as I neared.

I kicked the bottom of the screen door in a desperate knock and it was opened by a small child, no older than four years. The little boy wore a striped shirt and shorts. He was barefoot on the wooden floor and the ends of his toes were coalminer black. He had a blonde bowl cut that hung to his wide blue eyes. There was a brown mess of food around his lips. The boy didn't say anything, but I smiled at him and whispered, "Thanks, bud."

I stepped past him and placed the trunk next to one of the two florally upholstered couches in the living room. There was a broad fireplace in the living area with porcelain clowns on the mantle. On shelves near one of the walls, paintings of sad-faced clowns were crowded together. On the coffee table were salt and pepper shakers topped with clown heads, with their painted porcelain red hair. In the corner of the room, near a large window was a rocking chair with a terry clown, with long knitted gloved fingers and uncomfortably happy eyes.

"What in the fu—" I paused as the young boy tugged on the leg of my black slacks.

"Whatcha got in da box?" He asked.

I paused, caught off-guard. "It's a surprise, little man. Don't you worry one bit about it, alright?" I ruffled his hair and tried my best to imitate the dreadful smile of the rocking chair clown.

I heard a loud and obnoxious woman's voice surging into the room from behind me. She wafted the miserable scent from the kitchen in with her.

"Oh! Hello!" The woman's voice rang out in painful dissonance. Her voice reminded me of an old recording. Suddenly I was enveloped in a hug. The woman's large body and bosom pressed against my thin chest. Somewhere in the abyss of tacky pink floral fabric, I was restrained and in shock. I felt a small wooden spoon tapping my back as she held me like a husband returning from war. When she pulled from the embrace, she kept hold of my upper arms with her thick fingers.

Judith, I assumed, had thin lips with thick red lipstick. Her hair was fire truck red and wound in spirals on her head. She wore a yellow flower apron over her bulbous pink flower dress. The woman was a walking field of floral species fighting for dominance over her turf. The cacophony of color was distracting, even in a room full of clowns.

"Well, aren't you jus' precious? I'm Judith Mortimer, but you jus' call me Judy." She made her way back toward the kitchen. "I got you some sweet tea jus' over here in the other room, now. You com'on over and get—" Before she could finish, she tripped over my wooden trunk and stumbled.

Judith observed the trunk perplexedly, "My, my, what've we got here? This yours, handsome? You should take this on upstairs while I make you something to eat. Don't want anyone tripping on this here and breaking their neck. Us here, we're having the finest soup. The finest! Momma's recipe, in fact." Judith waved the wooden spoon around as she stepped back into the kitchen. Her rambling faded into incoherent warbles in the other room.

A terrible stench filled the house from what I imagined was a witch's cauldron in the kitchen. I started thinking of ways to get out of eating. The smell was distinctly animal and unclean. I wanted to see into the pot, to see if eyeballs or goat testicles floated and bobbed in the fluid. I peered into the kitchen, only to see Judith bobbing to and fro—a windy field of flowers that all smelled like cow shit.

I heard an engine start outside. I scrambled toward the window, still under the innocent observation of the young boy.

"Don't you have cartoons or something to watch?" I asked the boy as I pulled the floral curtains to the side to look for the source of the engine growl. Flowers. Clowns. Flowers. Clowns.

Mortimer was outside of a running, dented old truck. He tossed a small toolbox into the bed of the pickup and wobbled back toward the driver's seat. I noticed he had to jump to get into the front seat of the vehicle. What a pitiful man, I thought.

Judith was singing in the kitchen.

"Are you washed in the blood? Are you washed in the blood of the lamb?" She sang. A tapping lanyard of an unbalanced ceiling fan in the living room played a beat behind the tune. "Are your garments spotless, are they white as snow? Are you washed in the blood of the lamb?"

I examined my hands. I observed the smeared red mess on them. Afraid of a little blood, he said. I looked at my clean white shirt. I grit my teeth and closed the curtain as Mortimer started down the road. I lifted my trunk from the ground and stumbled around the small child, the coffee table, and the couches until I stood at the bottom of the stairs. I shifted my body and pressed the trunk between me and the wall for support while I surveyed the stairs. Behind me, in step like a soldier in training, the little boy followed, observing the stairs as well.

"Any ideas?" I asked.

The boy turned from the stairs to look at me, his whole head turning with each glance. The little boy's lips smacked and his tongue wagged around his mouth to wipe away the food on his face.

"Didn't think so."

I pulled the trunk from the wall and stepped up the first step. I went on to the next, one foot in front of another.

"So this is how I die." I muttered, half-muted as the box pressed against my cheek.

The boy took each step behind me. I was aware that if I fell the boy wouldn't have a chance. It wouldn't be the best way to make new friends. Thanks for fixing my car. I killed your kid.

There were more clowns upstairs on shelves and walls.

"It's a fucking circus in here." I was sweating again. I remembered the boy was behind me then. I looked back his way.

He covered his mouth.

"That's right. You didn't hear anything." I reminded him.

At the top of the stairs was a small bathroom. To the right was the boy's room. Boyish toys, plastic and pewter in action poses, were scattered in the wake of some great war of the boy's imagination. I wondered which of the muscular heroes won the fight. There was a racecar bed against one of the walls. It seemed an ideal place to put down the trunk—my ball and chain. My terrible responsibility.

I set the box down and leaned backward as far as I could to stretch. "Finally!" I shouted.

The boy watched the box with curiosity. I noticed his attention and it made me uneasy.

"Listen. I'm going to wash up, alright? I want to be nice and clean for your mom's shitty meal." Cleanliness was important. I grinned and rubbed my bloody hand in his blonde hair, leaving it matted and discolored. "How about you keep an eye on the box for me?" It didn't seem necessary to tell him. "Just stay out of it. Very important things in there I wouldn't want you messing up with your grubby little hands, alright?"

I went out of the room. The boy seemed unaffected by my language or demands. I stepped into the bathroom. Wallpaper walls and carpet floors. The bathroom reeked of cheap potpourri. The bottom of the shower curtain was dingy and brown, the same rusty color that stained the inside of the sink.

I closed the door and locked it.

Click.

I stared at myself in the mirror. I looked dismal. I examined the crusted blood on my hands which accentuated every crease and crack on them. I used the fingers of one hand to roll the blood on the other hand into small balls that dropped to the bathroom floor. Thin pieces of the boy's blonde hair were knit into the gore. Life and death in the palm of my hand. My breathing slowed. There was something satisfying about the manipulation of the blood. My eyes snapped back to the mirror to catch a smile that my reflection hid—only it hid it a little too late.

I turned on the water in the stained sink. The water smelled like cracked boiled eggs. What was cleaner, I wondered, the water or the blood? I scraped a sliver of soap from the porcelain sink. It was either exfoliating soap or melded with contaminants. I rubbed the soap between my hands as they sat beneath the brown-tinted water and watched as the dried blood swirled down the drain. I dried my hands on a crusted terrycloth that read Home Sweet Home with a little white and brown house sewn into it. I couldn't stand it. I pulled the towel from the hook and took it with me.

Click.

I stepped out of the bathroom and expected the boy to be outside waiting for me—my shadow. He wasn't there. Downstairs I heard the humming and caterwauling coming from Judith. In an effort to stay away from her for as long as possible, I went back into the boy's room. I paused as I noticed the boy standing in front of my open trunk. I dropped the terrycloth to the ground. Home Sweet Home. I crushed the towel beneath my foot like Godzilla and watched the boy. He hadn't noticed me yet.

The boy rummaged through his newfound treasure. Metal clinks and clanks echoed through the room as he searched. Satisfied with something he'd found, the boy rose.

"What do you have there, little guy?" I sounded friendly and okay with the incursion. I wasn't. The primal fear in the boy's eyes showed that he understood my anger and disappointment.

In the boy's hand was my machete, one of the many tools of the trade. The sharpened blade extended half of the boy's length, but it was light weight and easy for him to lift. The blade bobbed back and forth unsteadily. I took another step toward him.

"Didn't I ask you to stay out of the box? Don't you know it's impolite to dig through people's things without permission?" I took another step. Home Sweet Home was in ruins somewhere behind me—somewhere in front of me, too.

The boy said nothing. He hid behind the machete best he could.

"What should I expect? You're dad's an idiot and your mom is..." I looked back toward the open door and fell silent enough to hear the song.

Are you washed in the blood? Are you washed in the blood of the lamb?

My fingers wrapped around the boy's fingers and around the hilt of the blade.

"We don't want you hurting yourself now, do we?" I crouched to make myself eyelevel with the boy. I pulled the blade from the boy's hand, like a successful negotiator. "That's right. See? This isn't a toy, little man."

I thought about the fat kid on the bike. I thought about his foul-mouthed friend. I thought about the old man in the dusty shop. I thought about the skeptic cop. I thought about merry Mortimer and jubilant Judith. I thought about the little girl in the blue dress. I thought about the poor boy.

"You know, curiosity killed the cat." I felt cliché. I felt excited and sick with myself. I knew the expression was lost on the boy. I examined the blade from the hilt to the tip and admired it. So simple, like the boy.

"I ain't got no cat." The boy said.

I nodded. "I know."

Cleanliness was important. I swung countless times. It became increasingly difficult to remain clean. Blood stained the walls. Blood stained the old carpets. I stood speckled like modern art in front of what was left of the boy when I was done. I wiped the edge of the blade on the racecar bed.

"Vroom." I said as the blood smeared across the blade and blankets.

I stepped toward the door of the boy's room, but stopped in front of the bathroom towel that I dropped. Home Sweet Home. I looked back at the boy.

"I wish she would have taught you some manners, little man."

I started down the steps. They were easier to traverse without a trunk in tow. Judith's voice, a hollow murmur from inside of the boy's room, became clearer as I descended the stairs. Bloody tracks marked my path from the room upstairs.

Judith, with a near-psychic intuition shouted, "Com'on down, honeypot! You're going to love what I'm cooking up. Yes, you are!" Judith continued singing after the announcement. I assumed she was on verse fifty-three.

"I'm coming!" I left another bloody stamp in the carpet as I neared the bottom step. "I have something for you too!" I shouted.

Judith didn't hear me. The clowns in the living room watched me with disgust.

"Oh, we're judgmental now? Like you all wouldn't have done it." I scolded. The clowns seemed sadder than before.

I wiped a hand across my wet face. I held my hand in front of me for examination. The wet, warm blood dripped to the ground in front of me, tapping on the toe of my shoes. Tap. Tap. My eyes shot to the rocking ceiling fan. Tap. Tap. I closed my hand into a fist and stepped toward the kitchen.

I waited outside the threshold to the kitchen with my back to the wall and painted the wallpaper flowers red to match everything else. I noticed the girl in the blue dress swinging on the porch swing just outside the window. Sounds intensified. The swing's chains creaked and groaned as they tugged at the house's foundation. The floors creaked as Judith's body leaned from one side to the other in the kitchen. Her singing...

Are you washed in the blood? Are you washed in the blood of the lamb?

I stepped into the kitchen as Judith bobbed back and forth like a buoy on water. Her form jiggled and swayed under the blasphemous floral dress. She faced away and tended to the stove.

I joined in. "Are you washed in the blood? Are you washed in the blood of the lamb?" I followed her lead. I tapped the flat edge of the machete against my thigh to the beat. Tap. Tap.

Judith's hands went into the air as she heard me behind her. We had all the talent of a freshmen chorus. She waved her hands back and forth with the wooden sauce spoon in one of them. Soup this way. Soup that way. I wondered if she felt Jesus in that room. I wondered if I could help her if she didn't.

"Are you washed in the blood—" She turned around with a painted smile. When she saw me covered from head to toe in blood, she dropped the sauce spoon and covered her mouth. She wailed in a scream.

I lifted the machete high into the air and swung.

"—of"

I swung.

"—the"

I swung.

"—lamb!"

The machete was stuck. I rotated around Judith's heap trying to dislodge it.

"Not now. Com'on! I'm not done yet."

The machete wouldn't give. Judith had the last laugh, with her wide open mouth, lipstick double or triple coated around it. Clowns.

"You think you're so funny."

I picked up the wooden sauce spoon from the ground and waved it in front of Judith's stone cold, smiling face.

"Then I'm taking this, huh! Keep the thing. My gift to you, you old hag. For the—" I spun around and looked at the stove. A pot full of red, greasy soup bubbled. "—soup."

I stood over the pot and took in a deep breath. There were no rolling eyeballs or bobbing goat testicles. The oily slick surface migrated like amoeba in water.

"All that work." I dipped the sauce spoon into the soup, stirred it, and brought it to my mouth. "It's the least I can do, Judy." I took it in. The soup was salty. An aftertaste hugged my tongue and reminded me of potent cough medicine. I spit what little remained in my mouth on the ground next to Judith.

"Not so good, Judith." I grabbed a hold of the machete hilt again and pulled. Judith's dead body rose and fell with each tug and release. Sloppy, wet sounds came from below her. "Just give me my—" The weapon finally gave and sent me back against the stove.

"Ah, sh—" The heat, the smell, the blood, it all caught up with me. I looked up and noticed the girl in the blue dress. She stood at the threshold of the kitchen with a hand over her mouth. Like mother like daughter. Her eyes were screaming, but her mouth could not.

I stepped with one long stride over Judith's body and closer to the girl. "Calm down. I know this seems bad." I said. It was an incredible understatement.

The girl turned around and ran from the kitchen screaming. She burst through the screen door. The tight springs of the door fought back, but gave to her momentum. I chased her swiftly at first, but slowed as I slid toward the carpeted living room.

"Whoa." I steadied and grabbed the wooden trim around the opening to the kitchen. Dark green paint crusted and flaked from the surface. "Com'on back now! It's fine!"

My stomach groaned. The soup. The chocolate from earlier. I followed the girl's path out the door. The clowns were more skittish on the way out. They might have known they could have been next. I stepped out on to the patio. The girl was running out toward Mortimer's truck with her hands in the air.

"Back already?" I said to myself. There was no way Mortimer could have fixed the SUV already. I looked down and was embarrassed by myself. I was bloodied from head to toe. I didn't know what blood was mine and what blood wasn't. It didn't matter. I had a sauce spoon in one hand and a machete in the other as I descended the few steps from the patio. I continued toward the truck. The truck stopped suddenly and Mortimer leapt from the seat and ran toward his screaming daughter.

"He killed mom! He killed mom! I saw it! Oh Lord, I saw it!" The girl screamed and cried.

Mortimer was confused. He took his daughter into his arms and watched me. He was speechless. I whistled Judith's song as I stepped through the high grass. Each blade of grass leaned with the wind in an attempt to dodge me as I approached. As I neared, the girl squeezed tighter against her chubby father. With each step Mortimer's face reddened. When I arrived, I paused in front of both of them and left my arms slack at my sides.

"W-What have you done?" Tears welled in Mortimer's eyes as he looked me over—as he looked over the blood and the gore that hung from me like tinsel on a tree.

"I know, I know. I didn't want it to be this way, but he opened the box." I shrugged and half-smiled.

"W-What?" Mortimer shook his head.

"Com'on Mortimer!" My hands lifted and gestured over myself. "Ain't seen a little blood before?"

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