 
### When the Lights Go Out

An Anthology

Presented by

The Ink Slinger's League

First Smashwords Edition 2015

Copyright 2015 Ink Slinger's League

All works copyright of their respective authors.

Compiled by Joleene Naylor

Published by Smashwords

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover image courtesy of rbv, egitarrist, chones and canstockphoto

Cover by Joleene Naylor

**********

# Table of Contents

Intro

Midnight Summons by Tricia Drammeh

An Arm and a Leg by Adan Ramie

Loving Reflections by LC Cooper

The Blue Die by Bonnie Mutchler

Unforgotten by Joleene Naylor

The Midnight Ritual by Carolyn Cason

Behind the Door by CG Coppola

The Midnight Zone by Anne Franklin

Legends and Lies by Jason Gilbert

The Return of the Crusader by Barbara Tarn

Short Cut by Roger Lawrence

Reapers by Nikki Hess

Tigress Lizzy by Rami Ungar

Through the Willow Tree by DM Yates

Halloween's Perfect Storm by LC Cooper

Afterglow by Russ Towne

The Body by the Tree by Yawatta Hosby

Becoming Celine by Maegan Provan

The Mirror by Carolyn Cason

The Cat and the Coin by Sean Morain

The Leprechaun's Trick or Treat by Terry Compton

Malediction by Roger Lawrence

Beldren by Joleene Naylor

Heart's Lust by LC Cooper

Night of the Loving Kitty by Christopher Mitchell

Thank You

#  Introduction

**The jack-o-lantern is Halloween's most well-known symbol,** and has been used by humans for over ten-thousand years. While its origins are unclear, the beliefs about it, like much about Halloween, have remained unchanged for much of that time. Specifically, the jack-o-lantern is a ward against spirits, fairies, and the walking dead, the light within keeping away the denizens of the night from people's homes. If the light was extinguished before it went out naturally, then the spirits would gain access to the home, and wreak their unholy havoc on anyone inside.

We modern folk like to think that, in an age of science and the Internet and the Kardashians that we are past such beliefs in the supernatural and the need to ward against them. We also like to think that Halloween is just all fun and games. But others, especially horror writers, know better. There's a reason that Halloween, despite several name changes and a few appropriations by different cultures and religions over the years, has not lost or changed its function. The holiday, now as in the days when the Celts called the end of October "Samhain" and when early Christians called it All Hallows Eve: that there is much in the world that we don't know, things that at best will only play small tricks on or even act benignly towards us, and at the worst will make us their playthings or even their next meals. The traditions of Halloween itself—pumpkin carving, trick or treating, dressing up—are all tools to teach us how to avoid these malevolent beings that exist just beyond the edges of our safe, everyday lives.

Within the pages of this anthology, the writers of these stories have brought forth their own dark tales, inspired perhaps by the inner workings of their imaginations or maybe whispered to them by beings once worshipped and feared as gods, to remind us what we often forget the rest of the year. From the forces of Nature manifested as cats, trees and storms, to the ghosts, revenants, and reapers, the traditional sons and daughters of the night, and even things that defy our attempts to categorize them, there is something here to terrify every reader.

So read on and put big candles in the jack-o-lanterns outside your house while you're at it. Because even though you may think you're alone while all the lights are on, if you disregard the tales within and the lights in your pumpkins are extinguished too soon, you may not find yourself so alone when the lights go out.

-Rami Ungar

# Midnight Summons

(A Dark Summons Short Story)

By Tricia Drammeh

The phone rang once. Twice. Karen drummed her fingers on the table, hoping her sister wouldn't be furious to be awakened so late at night.

Claire's voice was groggy when she answered. "Karen?"

"Sorry to wake you, Honey, but I've got a case."

"Not again." Annoyance sizzled across the phone line. "I thought you were going to remove that silly advertisement."

"Well, I didn't. Emergency fees are my bread and butter, and I could really use the money."

"I told you I'd help you with Jared's braces."

"I know. And I appreciate it. But it's not just that. I've got bills to pay. I'm going to need new tires..."

"Okay, okay. What time is it?"

"Just past midnight."

Claire let out an exasperated sigh. "I suppose Jared's asleep. Hold tight. I'll be there in a few."

"Are you sure? I can bring him over there."

"Absolutely not. Let the boy sleep."

"Thanks, Claire."

"Just promise you'll be careful. It's not the ghosts you have to watch out for. Humans are far more dangerous."

"I'll be careful. See you soon."

Karen hung up the phone and rushed to get her supplies in order. Her new clients were waiting.

***

Karen stood in the strangers' driveway, her eyes closed. She tried to get a feel for the atmosphere, but the energy here was cloudy. Of course, a haunting could do that to a place.

She looked up at the two-story home. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. There were a dozen houses just like it scattered throughout the subdivision. This structure wasn't any more run down than the rest, with its peeling paint, skeletal shrubbery, and brown lawn. A chilly wind blew dead leaves across a cracked driveway that desperately needed repaving.

Karen strode briskly to the front door and knocked. For a moment, she considered turning around, getting back in her car, and going home. She didn't know the owners of this house. She had no obligation to help these people at all, but she wasn't one to back away from a case. Her advertisement claimed she accepted any case big or small. That no job was too difficult for her to handle. And she accepted emergency cases after hours, for an extra fee of course.

It was the promise of an extra fee that kept her standing on that doorstep. After Karen's and Claire's sister died a few years ago, Karen had taken guardianship of her nephew Jared. He was a preteen now, and it was becoming increasingly expensive to feed and clothe him, so much so that Karen had considered getting a "real" job. Mediums could make a decent living, but the pay was unpredictable. Until Jared was older, she needed more stability. Right now, she needed the money this late night case would provide.

She rapped the door again, wondering what was taking so long. When she raised her hand to knock again, the door suddenly opened. The figure of a woman stood there, shrouded in shadows.

"I'm Karen Cahill. I'm looking for Genevieve."

"I'm Gen. Please come in."

Karen stepped across the threshold, trying to get a reading on the house and the woman who'd hired her. The inside of the home was dark. A pale, flickering light beckoned from the back of the house.

"Is your electricity out?" Karen asked.

"No," Gen replied. "We lit candles for the séance."

Karen let out a frustrated sigh. The séance. Why did people insist on playing around with the spirits on the Other Side? The supernatural realm wasn't a playground. What was wrong with people?

"Candles?" Karen shook her head.

"You know, to create an atmosphere."

"Well, for heaven's sake, turn the lights on. I don't want to stumble around in the dark all night."

Gen flipped a switch and the entryway was suddenly flooded with light. Karen blinked to get her bearings. She took in the gray walls, the black furniture, and gothic decorations. Pictures of haunted houses and other spooky themes adorned the walls. A skull candle holder sat upon a table. It was obvious the inhabitants of this home tried to create their very own haunted house. Karen doubted this was their first attempt to contact the Other Side, but if she had her way, it would be the last.

"You don't look like a psychic," Gen observed.

"How should a psychic look?" Karen was used to this type of attitude. She'd been questioned before by clients who bought into stereotypes.

"I don't know." Gen waived her hand vaguely, drawing Karen's attention to her long, pointed, black nails. "I envisioned someone with crystal necklaces and beads or a scarf or something."

"Well, you were wrong. Being a psychic is a gift you're born with. You don't become psychic by dressing up in silly costumes." Karen knew she didn't look the part in her blue jeans, sweatshirt, and sneakers, but she didn't care. She dressed for comfort and practicality—not to satisfy the delusional fantasies of a woman who dressed in head-to-toe black and played around with the paranormal.

"Where did you perform the séance, and how many people participated?" Karen asked.

"In the back room," Gen said. "It was me, my fiancé, and his sister."

"And the participants are still here?"

"Yeah. Come on. I'll show you."

They walked through the house. The whole place looked like a Hollywood horror-movie set. Karen wrinkled up her nose in disdain.

"So, what's in the bag?" Gen asked, gesturing toward a navy blue tote bag slung across Karen's shoulder.

"A few supplies. Candles, crystals, salt...I never know what I might need."

Gen nodded, seeming to approve of Karen's bag of tricks.

"Okay, so right in here..."

Karen followed Gen into a large room. Karen stopped short at the doorway and mumbled a brief prayer to the Goddess. Again, the energy in this room was cloudy, but Karen could feel a subtle dark energy underlying it. The walls and even the ceiling were painted black. A large, black pentagram was spray painted on the red tiled floor.

"Fools," Karen murmured.

Contrary to popular belief, the pentagram wasn't a satanic symbol. It was only evil in the hands of foolish wannabe mediums. And, clearly, these wannabe mediums were as foolish as they came.

"What kind of room is this? What's going on here?" Karen demanded.

"This is where we perform rituals," Gen explained.

"What sort of rituals?"

"We cast circles and perform magic. Nothing crazy."

"I see. Well, I think it's crazy to dabble in magic when you don't know what you're doing."

"Who says we don't know what we're doing?" A tall, terribly skinny young man with black eyeliner and black clothing stepped forward. Chains dripped from his belt loop down to a utility pocket on the side of this thigh. His angular face was accented by multiple piercings.

"If you knew what you were doing, why did you call me in the middle of the night?" Karen asked.

The young man remained silent.

"Karen, this is my fiancé Tristan," Gen said, introducing her brooding friend. "And this is his sister Laney."

Karen glanced at the girl standing by a buffet table lined with black candles in elaborate candle holders. Laney was petite and pale with midnight black hair and a gothic style, velvet, ruby-red dress that looked like a Halloween costume.

Unimpressed, Karen looked at each person in turn, fixing them with a stern glare. "The ritual you performed tonight –was it different from previous rituals you've performed?"

"Not really."

"Have you ever used a Spirit board?"

"A few times. Just messing around, you know." Gen shrugged casually.

"What on earth made you think this would be a good idea?"

"It's fun."

"It's fun until the whole thing blows up in your face."

"Relax. It's fine," Laney said, rolling her eyes.

"Young lady, I've been cleaning up after people like you since before you were born. I don't relax when it comes to people messing around with things they don't understand." Karen turned back to Gen. "Did you use a Spirit board tonight?"

"Yeah."

"Where is it?"

"Over here." Gen led Karen to a folding table on the other side of the room. A Spirit Board sat in the middle. It was ancient looking, made of weathered wood, the letters faded. The planchette rested on the letter N.

"Did anyone properly close the session?" Karen asked.

"Oh, yeah. Sure," Tristan said.

"Please tell me what was said during this séance," Karen said.

Gen described the opening of the séance and how they called upon any spirits in attendance to make their presence known.

"The planchette started moving," Gen said, referring to the pointer on the board that moved from letter to letter, spelling out a message from the attending spirit. "The spirit said his name was Von. We started asking him questions."

"What sort of questions."

"We asked where he was from and he said 'other.' Then we asked him how old he was he said 'older than time.' Then the planchette started moving on its own. He said 'bring me over.'"

"And what did you say?" Karen asked, frowning.

"We said 'yes,'" Laney replied.

"Why in heaven's name would you do such a thing? If you were foolish enough to deliberately offer to bring this thing into your house, why should I help you to get rid of it?" she asked.

Laney sneered at her. "Who told you we were looking to get rid of it?"

"Of course we want to get rid of it," Gen said, her eyes wide.

"Maybe _you_ do," Laney shot back.

Chills shot down Karen's spine. She'd assumed the job entailed getting rid of something they'd summoned accidentally. Not something they willfully invited. Oh, the arrogance. She'd taken this job based on her own erroneous assumptions. When they'd called her begging for her help, she figured this was a run of the mill case where a group of bumbling idiots accidentally summoned a pesky dark spirit during a séance. Karen, it seemed, was the bumbling idiot. An arrogant idiot who made poor assumptions and underestimated the people she was dealing with. She couldn't help them unless they were all on the same page. Laney and Gen each wanted a different outcome, and until they figured out what they were looking for, Karen couldn't do anything for them.

She took a deep breath and tried to speak as calmly as she could. "I was under the impression that you needed my help with a haunting. I don't know what you're looking for, but I don't think I'll be able to help. I'll take my leave."

A frigid wind gusted through the room, lifting Karen's hair. She shivered. The windows rattled and the double doors that partitioned the room from the rest of the house slammed shut. Cold laughter filled the room. It seemed to be coming from all around them. Gen's eyes were filled with fear, but Laney's were full of excitement.

Karen strode to the doors and rattled the doorknob. It wouldn't budge.

"Going somewhere?" a deep voice asked, washing over her like a bucket of ice water.

With great trepidation, she turned to face Tristan. But it wasn't Tristan. Not anymore. His eyes were black orbs. Pale skin stretched taut across angular cheekbones. Inhuman features no longer belonging to Tristan.

The haunting had turned into a case of demonic possession. Karen was used to dealing with ghosts, poltergeists, and the occasional dark entity, but she'd never encountered a demon. She'd never performed an exorcism. She wasn't even sure she had the skills to do it.

"Tristan," Gen cried.

"Who's Tristan?" The demon's smile was mocking.

"You are not welcome here. This young man's body is not yours to possess. In the name of the Goddess, I command you to leave," Karen said firmly.

"I'm not going anywhere, nor am I yours to command." The demon's words rattled the windows. Picture frames fell from the walls, glass shattering on the floor.

"Blessed Goddess..." Karen's chants were drowned out by a tempest of destruction sweeping through the room. She needed to cast a circle of protection, but with objects flying at her from all directions, there was hardly time to do so. A candlestick hit her in the side of the head, knocking her to the ground. Wetness trickled down the side of her face. She scrambled to her feet, feeling dizzy.

Suddenly, the whirlwind ceased, leaving an uneasy silence. Laney's shrill voice broke the unearthly quiet. "Von, I've brought you a body to inhabit. I command you to leave my brother and take control of the medium instead." Her voice shook as she stammered out her orders.

The demon laughed. "I've found a body I like much better. It fits perfectly."

"No. That wasn't the deal," Laney said, looking around frantically as if she would find answers in the destruction strewn throughout the room. Her gaze landed on Karen. "You have to help me control it."

"Control? You can't control a demon," Karen replied.

"What the hell did you do, Laney?" Gen screamed.

Karen ran to the pentagram. She didn't have time to purify the area, but she hoped casting a circle would be enough. She reached for a canister of salt lying on its side, praying there would be enough to cast a circle. Mumbling a basic incantation, she quickly spun around, shaking the salt in a lopsided circle. She motioned for Gen to join her.

"Blessed Goddess, please protect us. Keep us safe in your circle of light." Karen raised her voice above the noise and chaos surrounding them.

Plaster from the ceiling rained down and the floor buckled. Tristan's hand reached out to Laney. "Come."

"No. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. You're supposed to take the old woman's body," Laney said. "You said..."

"I lied." An eerie smile stretched across Tristan's face. He reached for Laney again, but she backed away.

"Laney, you contacted the demon before?" Gen asked. "You planned this all along. I never should have trusted you."

"I'm sorry," Laney cried. "I didn't know this was going to happen."

Karen grabbed Gen's hands. "Look at me. I need your help. I can't do this alone. Do you want to save your brother?" Gen nodded. "Then help me."

"Whatever I have to do to save Tristan."

"I'll help," Laney said. "Please. I promise. Let me in the circle and I'll help you."

The demon was closing in on Laney. She ran to the circle, but the strong protection surrounding it kept her on the perimeter.

"Please," she begged.

"It's up to you," Karen said. "Can we trust her?"

With a muttered blessing, Gen scattered a portion of the salt and pulled Laney inside. Then she quickly replaced the salt while Karen chanted a spell of protection to recast the circle. Objects pelted the barrier around them as the demon howled in rage. The floor shook beneath them.

Karen looked around the room. Most of the supplies she needed were in her bag—outside the circle. A black candle sat in the middle of the pentagram along with some incense and a lighter. Karen would have preferred a white candle, but this would have to do. She lit the candle and murmured a purification spell.

"We need to draw the demon out of Tristan's body and command him to follow the light of the candle. In order to do this, we need to use every bit of energy we have. Understood? I need your full concentration. No matter what happens outside that circle, I need you to focus on the spell. Got it?"

Both girls nodded. They held hands and Karen began to speak. "Under the authority of the Goddess and Benevolent Spirits, I command this Dark Entity to leave this man's body and return to its realm. You are forbidden to return to this plane, and you are prohibited from contacting any human in this realm."

Vengeful laughter filled the room. Karen continued to chant spells and prayers as she swayed back and forth, still holding tight to Gen's and Laney's hands. Tristan's body convulsed on the floor and the flame on the candle flickered, rising up toward the ceiling. The flame danced sideways, turning from white to blood red to black. Unearthly screams erupted from Tristan's mouth. When Gen jerked her head toward the source of the noise, Karen squeezed her hand to remind her to focus entirely on the spell.

Light shot from Tristan's feet, hands and chest, and at last, his body ceased to move. The candle's flame shot straight up toward the ceiling one last time and then went out completely.

"Tristan," Gen shouted.

"Do not break the circle," Karen warned, holding tight to Gen's hand. She quickly thanked the Goddess and Benevolent Spirits for their assistance and said another prayer of protection before properly closing the circle.

Gen and Laney rushed to Tristan's side. He rolled over, moaning.

"My head is splitting," he said. "What the hell happened?" His gaze darted around the room, taking in the apocalyptic scene as if seeing it for the first time.

"You don't remember anything?" Gen asked, sounding alarmed.

"That's very common," Karen said.

Tristan's eyes narrowed as Gen explained what had happened. His expression was furious when he looked at his sister.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Laney?"

"I...I thought I had it under control. The demon wasn't supposed to do what he did."

"But you thought it was okay to let him take control of a stranger? You thought _that_ would be okay?"

"It was just for fun. Just an experiment..."

"An experiment? I never should have listened to you," Tristan said. "I never should have let you talk us into doing a séance."

"It wasn't my fault. It was the demon. Next time, I'll be careful who I contact."

"Next time? There's not going to be a next time. Not in my house," Tristan said.

"You could have killed someone," Gen said. "Don't you realize what could have happened? I think you need to leave. Like, now."

"You can't kick me out. It's Tristan's house too. Tristan?" She appealed to her brother.

"Go." Tristan stomped toward her, forcing her out of the room and toward the front entryway.

Laney shot Gen and Tristan a look of deep loathing before walking outside and slamming the door behind her. Moments later, tires squealed outside.

"Thank you, Karen. I...I don't know what to say," Gen stammered.

"Yeah. Seriously. Thank you. You saved my life," Tristan said.

"It wasn't supposed to go down like that," Gen said tearfully.

Tristan interrupted. "My sister. She's unhinged. She said she wanted to summon a spirit. She didn't say anything about a demon."

Karen held her hand up to stop them from speaking. She'd heard enough. She didn't want to hear any more. "What you did was very dangerous, but I guess I don't need to tell you that. Toss that spirit board in the garbage. Or better yet, burn it. Say some prayers of protection too."

Tristan pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. "What do we owe you?"

"Nothing," Karen said quickly. "I don't want a single penny."

"But..." Gen protested.

"You helped me make a very important decision tonight. Let's call it even," Karen said. She gathered up her belongings and left, muttering prayers of protection and calling on the Goddess to guide her safely home.

She drove through the quiet night, sensing danger around every corner. She wondered if she'd be able to trust her intuition again. Her psychic abilities had failed her. She'd been tricked. Or maybe it wasn't her psychic skills that failed—she'd allowed a desire for money to override her intuition. Whatever the case, her confidence had been obliterated and she couldn't imagine ever taking another case.

It was still dark when Karen got home. Claire was asleep on the sofa.

"Everything go okay?" she murmured, blinking the sleep from her eyes. She sat up abruptly when she focused on Karen. "I can see from the gash on your forehead that it didn't. What happened?"

"I'll tell you later. Right now, I'm beat. Do you want to stay here tonight?" Karen asked. Part of her wished she'd stay; she would welcome the comfort of having her sister here. Part of her wished she'd go home; Karen had things to do and she wanted to be alone.

Claire yawned. "I think I'll go home, if that's okay. My cats get lonely when I'm not there. Are you sure you're going to be okay by yourself?"

"I'm fine. Besides, Jared's here. I'm not alone."

"You might as well be. That kid sleeps like a log," Claire chuckled.

"We'll talk tomorrow," Karen promised. "Thanks again for coming."

After Claire left, Karen locked every door and window. With tired, shaking hands, she lit every candle in the house while asking the Goddess and Benevolent Spirits to protect her. She cleaned the wound on her forehead. And then she tossed her bloodstained sweatshirt in the trash.

After a shower, she logged on to her computer and removed every advertisement she'd posted online. She removed her website, threw away her business cards, and changed the voicemail on her phone.

The sun was coming up when Karen crawled into bed. On Monday, she'd begin looking for a new job. Because Karen Cahill, Certified Psychic was officially in retirement.

*****

If you enjoyed this story you might like to read more of Tricia's writing. Such as...

The Séance

by Tricia Drammeh

Read more about Karen Cahill in _The Séance_ , book one in the Dark Summons series:

Ninth grade can be a nightmare when you don't fit in at school, your crush chooses someone else, and your parents tell you they're having a new baby. Abby was prepared for normal high school problems. She wasn't prepared for a demon.   
Abby has always been fascinated by the paranormal, but after an ill-fated séance, she discovers not all Spirits are benign. A dark entity unleashed during the summoning sets out to destroy Abby, and within days, she loses her best friend, incurs the wrath of her parents, and becomes a prisoner in her own home. With time quickly running out, she assembles an unlikely group of helpers: the most hated guy in school, a retired psychic, and the cute clerk from her favorite bookstore. Unless the demon is defeated, Abby and her new baby brother won't stand a chance.

*****

**Tricia Drammeh lives in New Hampshire** with her husband, children, and animals. When she isn't reading, writing, or walking her dog through haunted graveyards, she can be found binge-watching reruns of Law & Order SVU. She is currently working on the second novel in the Dark Summons series.

**Website:** <http://triciadrammeh.com/>

# An Arm and a Leg

By Adan Ramie

An old shutter creaked in the wind. Della shivered and wrapped her hands around herself. In the distance, thunder rumbled, and dark clouds passed over the moon. She squinted at the boarded front door, then took a step back.

"I don't think I want to do this anymore," she said.

"Aw, come on, Del!" The girl in front of her turned and walked back down the porch steps. "They said we can join. They don't let just anyone in, you know. It took me six months just to get them to consider us."

Della looked up at her best friend, and weighed her options. On the one hand, I can leave right now, desert Rosie, and be the laughing stock of the school. On the other, they could be planning to sacrifice me to some kind of demon, and leaving would be worth never speaking to my friend again and being the laughing stock of the ninth grade.

"Good evening, ladies."

The unfamiliar voice jerked Della out of her thoughts. Both girls looked up and their eyes fixed on a strange girl about their age. She smiled with one half of her mouth and looked them up and down, first one, then the other. Della had the peculiar feeling that she was being measured, and she rubbed her upper arms in their sweater to warm away the chill that passed through her.

"Hi. Lena invited us," Rosie stammered.

The girl cocked her head to the side. "Are you ready for everything that's in store for you tonight?"

Rosie snorted, as if meetings in abandoned houses in the middle of thunderstorms were commonplace. "Yeah, we're ready. Born that way."

Della groaned. The girl at the door shifted her gaze to take in Della's yellow cardigan and khaki slacks. She barely suppressed a smile.

"Are you sure?" she asked. "Your friend doesn't seem up to it," she said to Rosie, but kept her eyes on Della, their gazes locked. Della couldn't look away.

Rosie laughed, but it rang hollow in the dark. "She's just a little shy." She nudged Della's shoulder, and Della shook her head to clear it. "She'll be fine once she gets in," she said more to Della than to the girl at the door.

"Well, then, by all means, come in." The girl stepped back inside, pushed the door open with one hand and ushered them in with the other. "We won't keep the others waiting any longer."

As Della passed by her, she could hear the subtle sniff as the girl smelled her hair. She looked behind her, but the girl had already locked the door behind them and started into the house.

"Our society is very exclusive for a number of reasons. You didn't tell anyone you were here?" She glanced back at Rosie.

"No, I didn't tell anyone but Della." She crossed her heart like a scout.

"And you, Della. Did you tell anyone?" She stopped and turned around and locked eyes with her, glossy pools of navy flecked with brown staring back at her plain, pale blue ones.

"No," Della whispered. "Not a soul."

The girl stared at her for another long, pregnant moment, then broke into the charming smile of a hostess. "Great! Now that we know you can follow the rules, we can start."

"Start what?" Rosie asked, her eyebrows furrowed.

Della realized then that Rosie didn't know any more than she did about this secret society, and wondered what exactly her best friend had gotten them into.

"Your induction into The Society for the Preservation of Old Souls. S.P.O.S. for short."

She pulled a leather necklace out from under her blouse and over her head. At the end of it was an old, oddly-shaped key that she slid into the ornate lock on the glossy black door. The tumbler clicked, and she took a deep breath. She turned the ivory handle, pushed with her shoulder and gritted her teeth until a force from inside seemed to help her open the heavy door. She beckoned them to follow as she walked inside and disappeared into an inky blackness.

Rosie took a step forward, but Della caught her by the elbow.

"I don't think this is such a great idea," she whispered. "They seem kind of dodgy."

The shorter girl snorted and pulled her arm away. "You're starting to act dodgy. They're the most exclusive clique in the whole damned high school, Della. Don't you want to be in the Inner Circle? Don't you want to finally be someone? Anyone?"

Della chewed her cuticle for a moment, then dropped her hand and sighed. She walked in behind Rosie, and hoped they hadn't just made a huge mistake. The passageway was pitch black; not a sliver of light peeked through anywhere, and Della bumped her knees and shins on several heavy, stone objects, a few of which were pointy enough that she was sure they had broken skin. Just when she was totally losing her nerve, and was working out a plan to sprint back from where they came and leave Rosie behind to enjoy her Inner Circle, the hallway opened up into a large, candlelit chamber.

"Ladies, pardon the interpellation," their guide announced to those gathered below them. "Allow me to introduce Rosie and Della."

They stood on a platform raised high above the rest of the room, and Della felt as if she were on display. The girls below them looked about their age, but something about them said they were wiser, more mature, and worldlier than small town girls could – or should – be. Some of them she had never seen before, and others she had, but from afar.

"They wish to join us," their guide finished, and the girls below them murmured approval or dissent. She turned to them. "Are you ready?"

Rosie's ponytail bobbed with agreement. Della inclined her head, not sure if she really wanted to be in agreement, and silently wished she were anywhere other than this dank, shadowy chamber with these strange girls.

"You'll be fine," their hostess said, and made to retreat. Rosie caught her by the elbow.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't introduce myself," the girl answered. "I'm Evelyn. I'm just the Gatekeeper. These are the women to whom you'll answer." With that, she pulled out of Rosie's grasp and left them through the hallway from whence they had come.

"Ladies, please, join us," a voice called from far below, and Della tried to focus her eyes in the low light to identify the voice. She drew back in surprise for a moment at the young woman who had called up to her.

"Bonnie?"

The girl grinned and waved her down. "You remember me? I can't believe it. It must have been, what, ten years?"

"Isn't that your cousin?" Rosie asked in a whisper. Della's head bobbed on her neck like a dashboard Jesus. Rosie broke into a smile. "Great! Then it should be no problem getting in."

Della felt herself break into a clammy sweat, and she grimaced without knowing it. "Rosie, my cousin Bonnie died. Like, ten years ago."

Bonnie's smile faltered, but she kept her eyes on them; with a flick of the wrist, she sent two girls to bring them down into her chamber. "Don't worry, Della, everything will make sense soon."

Rosie gaped as the smaller of the two minions clasped onto her and brought her down the winding stone steps, then presented her to Bonnie. Della similarly allowed herself to be led; she didn't know what else to do.

"I know you must be a little confused. Freaked out, even," Bonnie said, and chuckled. The girls around her laughed, too, but it was a rehearsed one, meant in solidarity - and inferiority to their leader.

"I went to your funeral," Della said.

Bonnie rolled her eyes. "You were four, Delsita. You didn't know a funeral from a fiesta."

Della pulled her arm out of the grasp of the girl beside her, and searched Bonnie's eyes for the truth. "It was all over the news for months. Mom wouldn't let Jenna go out alone anymore. She had to go everywhere in a pack, because they were afraid she was going to be abducted, too."

"Della." Rosie's lip quivered, and she looked at the faces of the girls around her with wide eyes. "I want to go home," she whispered.

Bonnie shot her a venomous look. "You'll leave when I say you leave." She turned her eyes back to Della. "If I'm dead, how am I right here in front of you?" She stood. "How could I be talking to you right now?" Her warm hand closed over Della's wrist, and burned finger-shaped welts into her skin.

Della tried to pull away, but Bonnie's grip was too tight. "Let me go!"

"You're not going anywhere. You wanted to be in our club, right?" She smiled, her eyes empty, her grip tightening. "Well, guess what? You're in."

"I don't want to be here anymore," Della whispered.

"You're going to get in trouble if you don't let us go," Rosie said, her voice quivering but full of conviction.

Bonnie flicked her head at the girls flanking them, then stepped back. Before the two friends could move, their arms were wrenched behind their backs, and they were led to a flat marble podium at the far corner of the room. Around the podium, there were deep grooves carved like serpents had wound their way around, then out, a large, rusted grate.

The minions pushed Rosie and Della up onto the podium. Both girls struggled, but were overpowered when two more of Bonnie's minions held them prostrate while the original two tied their hands and feet.

"Why are you doing this?" Della asked. "What do you want from us?"

"We have money! And phones!" Rosie begged through tears. "We'll do anything. Just don't hurt us, please."

The minions stepped back, their heads bowed, and Bonnie strolled up to the podium. Inches away from Della's face, she leaned down, and her mouth spread in a slow, wide grin.

"I have to do this. It's in my nature, as it was in the nature of my abductor." She picked up a piece of Della's pale brown hair and twirled it between two sharp, manicured fingernails. "We have to survive just like anyone else."

Rosie's face crumpled into sobs, and the podium around her pooled with hot urine. Della turned her head to look at her friend, but Bonnie pulled her face back; nails like talons bit into her tender flesh and drew pinpricks of blood.

"You understand, it works better if you're scared."

She let go. Della turned away and whispered consolation into her friend's ear. Bonnie sauntered around the podium and ran her fingernails along the marble slab. Rosie shrieked, and pulled her torso away, but her hands and feet wouldn't budge. She moaned and chanted a childhood prayer.

"Please, Bonnie, leave her alone!" Della cried.

Bonnie slid her fingernails from the marble to the flesh of the writhing, sobbing girl tied to it. She dragged them along the tanned skin, and blood welled to the surface and dripped down onto the marble. Della watched in horror as Bonnie slowly flayed her friend. Bonnie met her eyes, bit her lip like a schoolgirl with a secret, and then motioned with a tilt of her head for Della to look behind her. Before Della's shriek could come to its full peak, the minions were on her, clawing, biting, sucking, and ripping her flesh from her bones.

*****

If you enjoyed this story you might like to read more of Adan's writing. Such as...

Consuming Darkness

By Adan Ramie

Darkness. It's the primary fear of small children, the playground of the corrupt, and a piece of it lives inside us all. This anthology of dark and horror fiction includes two previously published stories, a few that have been expanded by popular demand, and three that are brand new, written exclusively for this collection. Also featuring a story contribution by author Mark Gardner.

*****

**Adan Ramie is a fiction author** who lives in a small town in southeast Texas with her amazing, supportive wife and delightfully rambunctious children. She has been published in _Beyond the Nightlight, Faed_ , and _Strange Portals_ , as well as _Skin to Skin, Liberty Island Magazine, This Dark Matter,_ and _Paper Tape Magazine_ , among others. Her anthologies, _Darkness Undone_ and _Consuming Darkness_ are collections of dark speculative fiction short stories that can be purchased at most major online e-book retailers. Her first novel, _Maladaptation_ , is slated for release in late 2015.

**Website & Blog:** http://adanramieblog.wordpress.com

# Loving Reflections

By LC Cooper

Her shriek battered me awake. The morning sun's glare added to my confusion, and the headache and fatigue turned my dreamy grin into a frown. Nonetheless, my priority was to comfort the fire alarm sharing my bed. Replaying my dream would have to wait. Ah, but what a dream it always was.

"I can't get this damn thing off," Nadine said while thrashing around in our bed.

Careful to avoid her flailing elbow, I moved in closer, feigning shock and surprise. "Do you want help this time?" I meekly asked.

"Yes! It's stuck on my finger again." Nadine flung the covers aside and flopped over to face me. "If this is your idea of a practical joke, it stopped being funny days ago."

"Oh, Nadine...," I said, hoping I sounded concerned. "I-I had nothing to do..."

"Then, who keeps putting this stupid ring on my finger?"

"I'm not asking you to believe me, but..."

"What I believe is that you put this stupid thing on me every night so that I'll give up, stop fighting, and just keep it on."

"Trust me, that's not my intent at all."

"Then, what is your intent, Damon?"

"I'm telling you, it's not me. I have no plans to con you into keeping my great-grandmother's ring as your engagement ring."

"Then, you explain this," she said while thrusting her fingertips into my chest. "And get it off my finger while you're explaining. Be careful, buddy. I'm tired of your nonsense and ready to pack..."

Hers was a hostility I'd endured many times throughout the year, but this was the first time she'd threaten to leave. It was also an unexpected change in attitude. Up until today, she'd been docile and somewhat accepting. Perhaps this was the occasional resistance I was warned about.

I pushed aside my dream and constructed a story to appease her. If she left now, my plan would be ruined—at the very least, delayed for another year or so.

"You know what," I said while acting surprised, "I do remember you got up to use the bathroom last night. And, I heard you rummaging around in the drawer."

"I don't remember anything after washing my hands."

"Well, there you go," I said while giving my leg a slap. "I bet, subconsciously, part of you wants the ring for its nostalgia—its connection to the past."

Nadine's expression softened "We have been discussing wedding plans a lot lately." She studied the ring that was still stuck on her finger. "Maybe I did slide the ring on during the night." She leaned in and kissed me on the lips. "I'm sorry, Damon. You were so sweet to propose, and all the planning is fun but stressful. This ring, though, is not my style. It's so big and clunky. It's not a comfortable fit."

I wouldn't admit it, because she needed to wear it, but it truly was an ugly ring. The story I'd told Nadine was that the ring was a family heirloom, my great-grandmother's wedding ring.

"Come on, Damon, don't just sit there—give me a hand. It hurts."

"Sure thing, Nadine. I hoped you'd like it. You know, we could get the band enlarged. Would that help?"

In my hands, the ring was easy to manipulate because I was the key to its release. Not wishing to make Nadine suspicious, I pretended to struggle as I removed it. Nadine squealed in pain, which was enough of a distraction for me to slip the ring over her knuckle and off her finger.

"Whew," I said, "it was on there good and tight, wasn't it? You need to stop slipping it on at night."

"Give it a rest. I'm not ready to buy your latest b.s. story." She shook her hand and rubbed the depressions that encircled her finger. "They look and felt like little teeth, like small daggers digging into my skin. I don't know how you managed to work the ring loose."

"Lotion," I lied. "I guess you didn't see me squirt some into my hand."

"No, and I don't care now that it's off."

I ran my fingertip around the inside edges of the ring, but I didn't feel any sharp points."How's this supposed to work if the ring is such a distraction?" I mumbled.

"How's what supposed to work," Nadine said from within our closet.

"Oh, it just saddens me that you can't wear the ring. It's been in the family for generations."

"I understand its significance, which is very sweet and romantic, but rings aren't supposed to be painful—they're supposed to be comfortable, like a marriage."

Sheepishly, I rolled my eyes and sneered—at myself—I cared deeply for Nadine, but the welling love I felt wasn't for her.

Once Nadine left for work, I returned to the bathroom. "Well, what am I supposed to do now? She refuses to wear the ring."

I was frustrated and impatient. Denice didn't answer, and I knew she couldn't until we met again in my dreams that night. I ached to hold her. What kept me going was that Halloween, and thus our one-year anniversary, was only three days away. However, a year's worth of careful planning was unraveling before my eyes simply because Nadine wouldn't cooperate.

Nadine was a sweet girl, but our comfort-ability was boring. We were going through the motions of moving our relationship toward marriage, but my heart never was really in it. Denice, on the other hand, was everything I'd ever wanted in a woman—grace, poise, beauty, sexuality, style, and charm. I so much wanted to be by her side forever. Yet, we could only be together when I was asleep. In three days, that was all to change.

"Denice! Hey, Denice Birdsong, where are you Gorgeous? I really need your help." As expected, she didn't answer. I was hoping whoever or whatever controlled this situation might bend the rules for a moment. Disappointed, I reached for the light switch.

Hearing the rapping of knuckles on glass, I whirled around and grinned. I waved and blew a kiss, and Denice did the same. Her very-familiar scent wafted down from the air vents, enveloping me in her floral perfume.

These were always peaceful encounters—I never was threatened, though friends and dates often complained about feeling watched when they were near mirrors.

There Denice was... and wasn't. No one stood at the counter, but I clearly saw her reflection in the mirror.

"H-How...?" I stammered.

"You sounded so pathetic that it seems we were granted access early." She grinned, and my heart melted in response.

"Only three days to go," I said.

"I know! I'm so excited! Finally, we'll be together forever."

It was my turn to grin. "I brought the mirror down from the attic. It was right where you said it would be. I'm surprised I didn't run into the thing last week when you sent me up there for the ring."

Denice shrugged and said, "You weren't looking for it. Hey, I bet the reason we're able to talk right now is because of the mirror's proximity. Where, exactly, is it?"

"I propped it against the wall behind the bedroom door. Then, tomorrow, as you told me, I'll set it up on its floor stand and begin cleaning it."

"I remember the wax was very thick. Make sure you give yourself plenty of time to complete the job. If we miss this window, we'll have to wait another year."

"I am not going to let that happen!" I said with a grin. "That's why I'll begin scraping off the wax a day early."

"Thank you!" she said, and then turned fully around. Because of how we were standing—in front of bathroom counters—she was visible only from the waist up, but what I could see was still amazing.

My slack jaw told her more than words. She giggled, and then said, "Good, you still like what you see?"

I was so entranced that I responded with a feeble nod. I so wanted to smell her, feel her breath upon my face, hold her in my arms, and make passionate love to her.

Denice's eyes opened wide, and she said, "Oh my, you're a naughty boy, aren't you, Damon!"

"That obvious, huh?" I said. "Gotta admit, I'm worn out from all the waiting. Meeting up in dreams has been great, but here you are in front of me, and you look and sound amazing, Baby. I want our reality to begin now, not in a few days.

"All good things come to those who wait, right, Honey?" Denice looked at many of the brightly lit and colorful features of the bathroom, and then glanced at the darkness that surrounded her. She began sobbing, "Your year is nothing compared to the misery I've endured trapped within this glass cage. Do you have any idea how long it's been since I smelled fresh air, tasted food, felt the warmth of another person's touch? After getting out of here," she said, pounding the mirror so hard it vibrated, "the first thing I want to do, after kissing you, is to run—doesn't matter the direction, or to where—I just want to run out in the sunlight. It's so—so damn cold, so barren within the thin walls of these mirrors."

"Easy, Baby, easy," I said, wishing more than ever I was holding her, comforting her. "Like you said, what do three little days matter?"

Denice looked deeply into my eyes. Hers burned with a fiery intensity that I hadn't ever seen. "Every moment in here feels like an eternity. Please, please, please get the mirror ready for me." She dabbed the corners of her eyes with her fingertips, and then added, "You must get Nadine ready, too. It's critical, now, that she keeps the ring on her finger."

"But, she hates wearing it. I don't see how ..."

"Don't worry. At this point, as close as we are, if you slip it on her finger while she sleeps tonight, the ring will become impossible to remove until after the transition begins. Also, her resistance will diminish—she will become receptive. Trust me, Honey, as long as by Halloween night, you get all the wax off the mirror and bring Nadine into this bedroom, everything will be okay. I bet, before long, we'll barely remember the anxiety and..."

"Your prison, right?"

Denice shook her head. "No, this place is a living hell. I'm afraid the ugly scar of its memory will be with me forever."

The radio on my nightstand was playing "Put Your Head on My Shoulder." I said, "Care to dance, Gorgeous?"

"I'd love to, Honey." She sniffled, wiped her face on her sleeve, and stood straight.

I watched in the mirror as we adjusted our positions to resemble a couple slow dancing. She curled into my chest and nuzzled her forehead into my neck. I held my arms to appear as if I was holding her hips. I swear I felt her pressure and presence with me. I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply through my nose, inhaling the sweetness and sexy aroma of her perfume.

"You feel great, Honey," Denice said between sniffles. "Don't ever let me go... promise, Damon."

Then, she shuddered and let out a pathetic sigh. "The-The cold is sinking in again. I'm being pulled away from you... from the mirror. See you tonight in your dreams, My Love."

I opened my eyes to see what was happening. She was gone—not in my arms, not in the mirror, nowhere. I felt so alone without her.

Making matters worse, at this moment, the two most important women in my life were hurting, and I was powerless to help either of them. Someone else held the puppet strings.

I suppose it was my duty to break the spell and tell Nadine the truth about Denice, her mirrored prison, and our plot, but Denice—gorgeous, hot, lovely Denice—meant everything to me. She was perfect, and oh, how I craved her. "When so consumed by love, what else matters," I said to my reflection before leaving the bathroom.

For the next two days, Nadine and I bickered frequently and generally stayed away from each other until bedtime. I was consumed with cleaning the mirror, and she had become sad and listless.

"Damon, for the record, I absolutely detest this ring. It's not me, my style, and I never liked Black Hills gold... grapes, leaves, and stems... I'm not a rabbit, for God's sake. My friends tease me, saying it looks like you got it out of a bubble-gum machine. You promised, you promised me that you'd replace this hideous mess, and yet, here it remains, stuck on my finger. With a frustrated grunt, she twisted and pulled so hard on the ring that her left hand slipped away and raked my cheek. The ring's stones and prongs tore a hole in my face, and the wound felt like it was on fire.

"Serves you right," Nadine shouted, but then stopped, astonished. "What's-What's it doing?"

The wound pulsated green—I saw its glow reflected in Nadine's glasses. The painful burn gave way to a soothing, cool, and tingling sensation. Within seconds, in the time it took to raise my hand to my cheek, the gouge was completely healed, as if the incident had never occurred.

"Where did it go" Nadine glanced nervously back and forth between my cheek and her ring, not comprehending "What's really going on?"

Instead of sticking around to discuss it, Nadine spooked and dashed out into the hall and then down the stairs. I dutifully began to follow, but returned to the bedroom upon hearing her car start. I didn't bother calling Nadine to hack through this latest drama—I had a deadline that I was fanatically determined to meet.

Admittedly, I was distracted to the point of insanity. Denice, an amazingly beautiful woman, was practically throwing herself at me, needing me to rescue her, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do to help her until Halloween night.

During the next two days, I diligently chipped and scraped away the thick matte of wax that covered the front of the mirror. Denice told me the wax protected the five-hundred-year-old mirror from damage and deterioration while in storage. Sweating, and coated in dust and grime, I cursed the thoroughness of the person who encased the mirror so long ago.

The night before Halloween finally arrived, and I felt like a ball of stress wrapped within a shell of giddy euphoria. Still unable to explain the unnatural events of the last few days, I was again relegated to the couch while Nadine slept behind our bedroom's locked door.

I was relieved to meet Denice in my dreams. Although ecstatic to see her, I was physically exhausted and mentally drained. I demanded an explanation for my cheek's seemingly miraculous recovery and Nadine's extreme anger and paranoia.

Instead of answering, though, Denice said, "Damon, Honey, you're mine until the morning, so let's enjoy these last few hours until we're permanently together".

I pushed Denice back a bit and looked deeply into her amazing eyes. "I only love you, Denice, and that's forever. But it was your idea for Nadine and me to hook up. I still don't understand..."

"I'm relieved to see she's still wearing the ring," Denice said, changing the subject. She put two fingers to my lips to silence me. With a dismissive wave of her other hand, she added, "You'll see, My Love. Tomorrow night, all of your fears and concerns will disappear. Nadine will become just another fading memory for you. One thing's for certain, once you and I are together, you will never sleep alone on another couch ever again."

Satisfied with her vision of our future together, I said, "What now? What's next? Most of the wax is off the mirror."

"Yes, yes, I've been watching you. For my successful return to civilization, you must scrape off every bit of the wax residue. So, I still need your help... and I need Nadine's even more."

She pressed into me again, and we kissed passionately. Love welled in me so strongly that I feared waking up and shouting Denice's name. Pulling away slightly, Denice forced a smile as I wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.

"What I tell you next might hurt you, and it will forever change your relationship with Nadine."

During the past year, I learned to accept the bizarre as facets of my love for Denice. "Please go on."

"Damon, Honey, you can't imagine how cold and lonely I've been, sitting in the musty, drafty darkness of this tomb-like prison, watching the world go by from behind slabs of mirrored glass. Many people pass through this house, oblivious of me, and yet I am only permitted the occasional dream-state interaction. How precious life is if... only if I can escape this hell."

"After I finish cleaning the mirror, what do you need from me? What's Nadine's role in your escape?"

"Another... must take my place."

"I was afraid you would say that. Denice, I love you so much that my heart aches, and I long for the day when we can be together forever, but I won't, I can't..."

"I am not expecting you to trade places with me. Besides, it doesn't work that way."

"Then, what needs to happen to get you released?"

"Only another woman can take my place," she said in a whisper.

"Nadine? You've been working me over this past year to get her..."

"I'm desperate, Damon, but not devious. Alone in my prison, I've had a lot of time to think. Inside, I really am a good person. I did some dumb things, and I hurt those who loved and cared for me. This dark, depressing tomb is a sobering punishment."

She shivered, and I rubbed her soft, bare arms with my hands.

Denice smiled meekly. "You're everything to me, Damon. Whoever is in charge of this place behind the mirrors allowed me to reach out to you—to prove that I am humbled and can care for another person again."

"But, why Nadine? I-I'm honored, Denice, and I truly only love you, but Nadine's been pretty good to me. I'd feel terrible tricking her into trading places with you."

"Then, I will remain imprisoned here forever—nothing more than a distant memory to you."

"Please don't talk this way. There must be another..."

"Trading places is the only option. The transition is how this works."

"Hold on a minute. I just thought of something. Behind the mirrors, and in my dreams, you aren't physically there."

Denice smirked. "That's the kicker. My essence—my life force—is trapped. My body never left the physical world."

"Then, the answer is simple. Tell me where your body is, probably in suspended animation somewhere, and I'll bring it back to you, and..."

"I was tricked into trading places with the woman who was trapped in here before me."

"So..."

"Her essence is in my body. I have absolutely no idea who she is now or where she is."

"Then, if you and Nadine trade places, I'll never see you again?"

"Are you in love with my looks or my personality."

I shrugged, sensing the trap. "Both, Denice. You're a perfect package, and once returned to your body..."

"Nope. I told you, it doesn't work that way, Honey. To be with you, I have to take over Nadine's body."

I was sweating and shaking. I had no idea that her target was Nadine. "She's so sweet and innocent," I mumbled.

"Really? Boy, does she have you fooled. I'm surprised; I believed you were much more aware."

"Now, you sound like you're trying to wedge doubt between Nadine and me."

"Me? Damon, you're the one who just asserted that you love me so much that it hurts. What do you truly feel for Nadine? Would her loss really hurt if you gain me?"

"But, I wouldn't get all of you."

"How shallow..."

"No, what I mean is that every time I look at you, I will see her, and she will remain a constant reminder that I helped entrap her, committing her soul to a life within the mirrors."

"Sure, it's a heavy price, Damon, but think of it this way—I'll be given another chance at life. You and I will be happy for the rest of our lives together."

"Yeah, it does sound good, but..."

"But nothing. It's time to choose, Damon. What's it going to be? Me or her?" Denice pulled away from me and said, "You have less than twenty-four hours to make your choice."

This was Denice's and my first fight, and it was profound. I startled awake with a massive headache.

Nadine stumbled groggily out of our bedroom and flopped down beside me on the sofa. "It's on my finger again. Last night, I soaped my left hand enough that the ring finally came off, but not without tearing up my knuckle though. All that work for nothing 'cause it's right back on my finger. All I have to show for my effort is a nasty scab."

"Your knuckle didn't heal up like my cheek did. It's as if fate is telling you," I said, and then I shuddered. Instinctively, I glanced up to the ceiling as if Denice was floating up there watching. "The ring..." I said.

Nadine moved to stand in front of me. Thrusting her hand into my face, she said, "I don't know whether to leave you or move the wedding date up. You certainly seem desperate to keep this thing on my finger."

I rubbed my aching neck and said, "You kept the door locked, and I don't have a key. I assure you, Baby, I didn't do it."

Resignedly, she said, "Yeah, yeah, I know. I locked it inside my jewelry box, which I stuffed inside a blanket in the closet. You couldn't have found it. I just don't understand why my subconscious is so determined. It's not like I'm desperate to get married."

Instead of walking into that trap, I took her hand in mine and gently tugged and twisted, but the ring wouldn't budge. Now, it wouldn't turn. I grabbed it tightly and gave it my hardest twist, which produced a howl of pain from Nadine.

"It's as if it's glued on," I said, giving the ring another tug. I then thought about how adamant Denice was that the ring remain on Nadine's finger all Halloween day. Then, it came to me that the ring was a catalyst, or maybe the conduit, to transport Nadine into the mirrors while Denice emerged within Nadine's body.

I lost the train of thought when Nadine yawned and said, "I'm very tired today. I don't think I'm up for the office party tonight. Let's just stay in and hand out candy to trick-or-treaters."

So focused on Denice's rescue was I that Nadine's office party and handing out candy completely slipped my mind. Nadine saw my relieved expression, but wanted to know why I didn't want to go out on my favorite holiday.

"I'm anxious to finish cleaning up that antique mirror for you. Besides, you and I have been bickering so much lately that I'm not in the partying mood."

"Yeah, probably best we stay in."

She headed for the shower while I returned to removing the remaining wax from the mirror. Nadine barely paid attention to it, or me, as she groggily went about getting ready for the day. After exchanging a few pleasantries and a quick kiss, she ambled downstairs and outside to her car. I wondered if she was aware of what was to happen later. Although it made me sad to think Nadine was off enjoying her last hours of sunlit freedom, I was overjoyed that I'd soon have Denice—or at least Denice in Nadine's body. I grimaced and shook off the doubt, choosing to focus on the tasks ahead of me.

Once reattached to its three-legged, claw-foot base, the framed mirror stood over six-feet tall, and it took all my strength to lay it flat. A thin waxy film still coated most of its mirrored surface, which I would get to soon, but my target was the mass of black candle stubs stuck atop the frame. I'd been working on the thing for days, but I never came up with a reasonable explanation for using wax in this manner. It may have kept the silver coating attached or the mahogany frame supple, but what a pain in the butt to clean away. I quit griping and focused on my prize—getting Denice released and into my arms.

I feverishly scraped, chopped, sawed, and sliced blocks of the wax away until the frame was clean, and the dulled smears on its glass surface were all that remained.

Slowly, strip by strip, I scraped away this final layer of cloudy wax, wondering what famous people may have stood before the mirror over the ages. After scrubbing the remaining bits off its surface, I stood it back up to admire my handiwork.

It truly was a magnificent mirror. Massive by itself, the inches-wide mahogany frame made the whole thing intimidating. The trim work was dainty and delicate, which didn't seem to blend with the sturdy design. Nevertheless, I oiled the wood, buffed the whole thing again, and worked it into a more prominent place in the bedroom.

I bent down to pick up my buckets of tools and cleaning supplies, and then heard a familiar voice say, "Hey there, good looking."

I was shocked—dusk was still hours away, and although it was Halloween, I didn't expect Denice to appear yet. Nervously, I sprinted to the bedroom door and closed it in case Nadine had returned home

"Denice?" I anxiously called out. "Where are you, Gorgeous?" Ever since bringing the mirror down from the attic, I hoped that cleaning away the wax would somehow release her from her prison within the mirrors—kind of like how Aladdin rubbed the grime off the oil lamp and released the genie.

I raced around the suite, and then into the bathroom and closet, but my calls out to her went unanswered. Frustrated that my overwrought imagination conjured up the whole thing, I washed my face and stared into the mirror behind the sink. Leaning forward against the counter's edge, and propped up on my elbows, I wondered where Denice was, and if she felt as excited and nervous as I did.

I snapped out of my daydream and scrambled into the bedroom when I heard Denice say, "Where are you, Honey I can't see you."

"You did it!" I yelled, "Baby, you escaped!" The magic of Halloween must have released her without dragging Nadine into that horrible fate. Relieved that the pressure was off of me, I scanned the room for Denice, but I still couldn't find her. "Where are you hiding, Denice? Not a funny game..."

"I'm standing right behind you, Honey. Turn around."

My euphoria drained down to my feet when I realized Denice was talking to me from within the standing floor mirror. Once Again faced with the heaviness of deciding Nadine's fate, I was less than enthusiastic when I turned around to face Denice. However, my good mood returned. In awe, I gasped when I saw Denice standing fully within the mirror's frame. "You-You are even more beautiful than ever."

"Thank you, Damon! Wow, you cleaned this portal up nicely." She turned around, prancing, so I could see every perfect inch of her. "Well, are you ready for me?"

Distracted by her sexy teasing, it took a little while for her words to sink in. "You called this mirror a portal, Denice. What did you mean?"

"You're a bright boy—it's not that hard to figure out. Call it whatever you wish, but this is nothing more than a glass prison to me." The disappointment on her face transitioned into a big grin. "Do you feel it, Honey? We are so close now, so much closer to being together forever."

Puzzled, I started to question her abrupt mood swing, but went along with her happier attitude; I, too, felt a shiver of excitement. "Yeah, Gorgeous, I'm ready."

I pressed my palms flat against the mirror's surface, a movement that Denice copied. There we stood, admiring each other, knowing that only a thin layer of glass stood between us.

"So close, but yet, so far away," she said with a sigh.

"Why don't I smash the mirror? That would release you, right?"

"The mirror represents the only way in and out. Let's pretend, for a moment, that you did shatter the mirror—I'd be smashed into little bits as well because I exist within its confines. Trust me, others have tried without success. The woman who trapped me in here thought similarly. She tried to destroy it to keep me from getting out and forcing her back in. She attacked the mirror and its frame with hammers, an axe, all sorts of tools. She even tried to light it on fire, but as you can see, there isn't a scratch anywhere."

"So, she sealed it with thick, black wax to..."

Denice sighed and said, "To stop me from talking directly to her, and so she wouldn't see me anymore. She continued to drip coat after coat of wax down the mirror until she no longer heard my cries for help. Then, she hid this mirror, and the ring, in the attic."

"How-How sad and tragic," I said. "yeah, I thought something was odd about the wax—the facts didn't add up. Since all the wax is off now, can't you just leap out of there? I'm ready to catch you," I said while extending my arms out toward Denice.

"Not yet, My Love. There is still that final step that must occur."

"But physically, you'll be Nadine—a fact that will haunt me for the rest of my life."

"Isn't it a fair trade, though? Look, I can tell that you two don't really dig each other. She's had many, many doubts."

"You can read her mind?"

"Don't need to. She talks a lot to herself while doing her hair and makeup in the bathroom."

"You can see and hear everything in the other mirrors in the house, but I can only see and hear you from this mirror? Hardly seems fair."

"Not a damn thing about this situation is fair, Damon. And Frankly, I'm worn out trying to keep my sanity while we inch toward my freedom. I want out, Honey, and I want out now. Please, please help me."

"Oh, I will, Denice. You can count on me. I just need a little more time to sort things out in my head."

"Too much time has been wasted already!" Oddly, Denice's face hardened for a moment. I wondered if there was anything else she was hiding from me.

"Tell me," I said, "what does the ring have to do with your release

"You figured out that this mirror and the ring go together, did you? Excellent. Well, the ring is a catalyst for the transition. The wearer becomes less ambivalent, more open to keeping the ring on, accepting her fate..."

"Sounds like it turns whoever wears it into some sort of zombie."

"Really? Do I look like a zombie? No, my dear, once the ring makes a permanent connection to the woman wearing it, it assists in the release of her essence—her soul—which allows me, then, to leap into her body at the same time her essence is drawn into the mirror."

"Ugh, sounds cold and callous."

"Survival of the fittest, I suppose. Look, I've done my time and my penance. I'm ready to stretch out my wings and fly again. Are you with me?"

"Of course, Denice. I want it no other way. I do feel sorry for Nadine though. She is such a sweet girl."

"Not as sweet as you think, Damon. She's been socking money away in case it doesn't work out with you. Then, she's said a bunch of crap to her mother about backup plans. Actually, it's a good thing the ring became permanent when it did. Nadine was so aggravated that she was planning to leave you this weekend."

"How-How do you know all of this? Oh, from inside the bathroom mirror..."

"Bingo, so back to my question. When are you going to release me from this jail, sheriff?"

"Sooner than I had planned," I said while stewing on what she'd said about Nadine.

"Tonight, shortly after dinner and before her usual shower time."

"Perfect! Oh, I'm so excited, Damon! Thank you, thank you, thank you so much for helping me. I promise, I'll be yours for eternity."

Still, in the back of my mind, I couldn't shake the image of Nadine trapped behind the mirror while physically being with her every moment of our lives. Even with Denice's soul inside Nadine's body, there's no way everything would be good from this.

I suppose I didn't blame Nadine for talking to her mother about leaving me. Certainly, my heart hadn't been fully into the relationship, and marriage seemed like such a prison sentence. In the end, if I married Nadine, she and I would be trapped in a loveless marriage, and Denice would still be trapped within the mirrors. At least, I reasoned, with Denice released into Nadine's body, then Denice and I would be happy, while only Nadine would be trapped. Seemed like this was a better solution—not a perfect one, but better than the first option.

Dinner came and went. Nadine was unusually quiet and demure, as if she sensed a major, sad change was coming. She wouldn't talk about it though, and seemed to act resigned to her fate.

My heart hurt, and my soul cried out, NO! Don't do this to her, Damon." But then, I'd think of Denice, our undying love for each other, and the misery she endured being trapped so long behind the mirrors.

It was time for bed. Nadine was astounded at how beautiful the mirror was, and she squeezed me tightly while we stood before it. She was smiling now, being so sweet, as if her drugged soul was crying out to me for help.

I felt like shit, so ready to betray and abandon her.

"Who-who's that... in the mirror?" Nadine said sleepily.

A dark tunnel appeared in the mirror above our heads. A silhouetted figure slowly emerged from the tunnel's depths. Nadine and I were silent, but I knew from the sway of her hips and swagger that it was Denice... returning to life. I closed my eyes and pulled Nadine tightly into my side and chest. She was so sluggish. Whatever was in that ring made her totally submissive.

Denice's image occupied most of the mirror's area—Nadine's and my reflections weren't visible. Denice looked down at Nadine, hunched over and leaning into me, and said, "I am so glad to finally meet you, Nadine. I very much appreciate your arrival. I promise to take very, very good care of you... your body."

"Wh-What's she talking about, Damon. I don't understand," Nadine said between yawns.

"It's nothing, my dear," Denice said. "Damon, be a good lad and bring your little friend up to the mirror."

I hesitated, first looking down at Nadine all curled up and asleep against my chest, then up at Denice—whose eyes were alight with the glow and clarity of a piercing depth I'd never seen before.

"I said, bring... her... closer," Denice said with a guttural growl in her voice.

I said, "Denice, calm down. I-I really don't like the way this is going. You-You're acting so strange... so different."

Suddenly, Denice straightened up and shook her head, as if shaking away the fog of a trance. "Oh, thank you, Honey, for making me aware. For a moment, the old me was coming through. Whew! Okay, let's get on with this, shall we? You and I have a lot of catching up to do."

Denice flashed me that amazing smile of hers again, but this time, I noticed a difference. Instead of her teeth being pearly white as usual, they were grey, cracked, and twisting before my eyes.

She must have seen the shocked look on my face because she said, "Damon, My Love, we are at a critical junction right now. Both Nadine and I are exposed during this transition. I'm probably aging before your eyes as our life forces begin trading places."

I paused again when I heard Nadine weakly say, "I trust you, Damon." As if on cue, Nadine slumped heavily, and I almost dropped her.

Denice tapped on the glass to get my attention. "Quickly, there isn't much time left, Damon. You need to place both palms of her hands on the mirror, and then I'll do the same so that our hands are nearly touching. Then, the circuit will be complete. My essence will transfer through one set of hands while hers transfers through the other set. Come on, Damon, just a little closer... almost... there..."

I happened to look up at Denice's face at this moment. A pulsating green crack appeared across Denice's right cheek. To my astonishment, a series of intersecting cracks spread across her forehead—these, too, flashed between emerald green and muddy brown.

Repulsed, I backed away from the mirror, giving Nadine's body a hard yank backwards, but her hands didn't budge off the mirror.

"Fool! It's too late now to save her. The transformation is in process. There is no turning back now."

I continued to tug and yank on Nadine's body and forearms, desperate to break the bond, but nothing, absolutely nothing worked. Oh, what an idiot I had been. I looked down at Nadine's sleeping face, so peaceful and innocent, and then said, "I am so sorry, Nadine, to have done this to you. You don't deserve to be trapped inside the mirrors. I love you, Baby. I love you so much. Please, please don't leave me."

My focus was on Nadine, and not at all on Denice, until I heard a hiss followed by a vicious, bellowing roar. Nadine startled, and I shielded her eyes so that she would be spared the vision before us. "I truly loved you, Nadine," I said before kissing her forehead. "Please forgive me... please."

Nadine's hands quivered, and then her arms fell by her side, and she slipped out of my grasp and onto the floor. I dropped to my knees and held her hand, which is when I noticed the ring was gone from her finger.

"No!" screamed Denice "The transformation... it's impossible... It-It can't be!"

Then, I looked up at Denice's face. Gone was the beauty I thought I'd loved. Pain, twisted, rage, sneering... all these emotions and expressions seemed to ooze from her image. I realized Denice was no longer focused on me, or with getting Nadine back up to the mirror. Instead, she was staring at her left hand. There, firmly embedded was the ring on her finger.

Denice howled with fury and pain. "I can't stay trapped. I want out, now! Let me out of here!" She furiously clawed at the ring and her finger, but the ring didn't budge. Shaking with rage, she let out a tormented scream, and then all of her skin cracked and fell away—revealing a hideous apparition. Oblivious to my staring, the beast that I thought was Denice focused on attempting to amputate its own finger. Shark-like teeth slashed and tore at the ring and finger, but after each bite, the wound repaired itself.

Instinctively, I reached up and touched my cheek at the spot that had been damaged by the ring. I shuddered to think how close I'd gone to releasing that beast from behind the mirrors.

Realizing it couldn't remove the ring, Denice, or whatever it really was, stood and glared at me. "You-You ruined everything." It leaped forward at the glass, slamming its body into the unyielding mirror time after time. I stood there watching this desperate act, unable to tear myself away. I just couldn't believe this was happening.

"I-I will kill you, boy," the thing bellowed, "you and your little rag doll!." With each successive attempt at smashing through the glass, the power of each thrust, and the anger in the beast's voice, became weaker and weaker. Eventually spent, it collapsed on the black floor inside the mirror and wept—long, laborious cries of frustration. Assuming Denice's voice again, it cried out for me to help it.

Instead of exposing us to further attacks, I scooped Nadine up into my arms and raced out of the house. We spent the next three nights in a hotel room.

Nadine said that she remembered nothing about standing in front of the mirror with me. Also, she believed my story that we were living at the hotel while our house was being treated for termites. Worried at first, I was relieved that Nadine didn't remember the ring or any incidents involving it.

I didn't sleep at all the first night away, believing Denice's threats and terrified she'd attack while we slept. The next night, I accidentally fell asleep while reading a book. Thankfully, my dreams weren't haunted by Denice, which I attributed to the confining properties of the ring.

On the fourth day, I got up the nerve to re-enter the house, after rationalizing that the beast couldn't escape. I pushed the bedroom door open slightly, hoping to listen for any movements or sounds, but the door's creaking gave me away.

"Honey, is that you?" I heard Denice's voice say. "Hello, anybody there?"

I realized that she, it, was still trapped within the mirror, otherwise, the door would be seen opening. However, the bedroom door was around the corner from the mirror.

"Who's there?" called out Denice's melodious voice. "I'm betting it's you, Damon. Come on over here. I won't bite."

Brandishing a pistol, I walked over to the bed's footboard—about fifteen feet away from the mirror. There stood Denice, in all her beauty and glory.

"Want to see what you're missing, Honey?" she said. I'd be an idiot to say that I didn't get aroused by the strip-tease she performed, but in my heart and head, I knew what she really was and the motivation behind her act.

"Thank you," I said as she twirled around, fully nude. Hers was a glorious body, but it was merely an illusion. I said, "Denice, or whatever you are, your game is over—I'm no longer playing. I certainly now understand why the portal mirror was caked in thick, black wax."

Denice uttered a guttural, menacing growl, but remained in her current form.

Emboldened, I said," Beast, please tell me why you can't escape... why you and Nadine lost your connection during the transformation."

Denice's shape gave way to that of the beast. It rested on its haunches and stared at me. Ruby-red and coal-black eyes glared at me while it continued to growl menacingly.

I glared back at the monster and said, "I'm no longer in love with Denice, and your posturing doesn't intimidate me in the least. This is your chance to explain things, pal."

"Oh, very well," the beast said with a huff. "That stupid emotion broke off the transformation—that insipid, smarmy one called love. I really didn't think you loved Nadine, Damon. It seemed like you were always just going through the motions. It infuriates me to admit this, but you beat me. Although I will continue to try to break out of here, I will probably forever remain imprisoned within the walls of mirrors."

It's form flickered back and forth between its image and Denice's while it said, "Who knows, one day, some other human might come along and actually free me." Then, the beast leaned forward and tapped the mirror's glass with a craggy finger. "And when I do get out, I will hunt you down, Damon, and tear you limb from limb." Then, the beast stood. "Of course, there is an alternative to such a hideous death. I can make a deal with you that would grant you life eternal."

I smirked. "As I've demonstrated, you no longer sway me, beast. Haven't been in my dreams since your escape attempt, have you? It's because you're wearing the ring, isn't it? You are forever trapped within that miserably tiny space. The ring can't be used as the conduit any longer because it's forever affixed to your finger... and trapped inside the mirrors, too. Am I right?"

Startled by the beast's ferocity, I hurried to the far side of the bedroom. Although it remained upright, the mirror swayed and rocked on its legs as the monster repeatedly smashed its shoulder against the mirror. Realizing the futility of its attack, the intensity slowed to a stop as I walked out of the bedroom. I soon returned carrying a ladder and a bag of supplies.

"What-What are you doing?" the beast stammered.

"What I should have done when I first discovered this portal. I'm going to destroy it so you can never escape... never hurt anyone again."

The beast snarled and leaped at the glass, but the mirror simply bowed slightly before thrusting the beast backward. "See, you stupid human? If I can't destroy this thing with all my might, how do you propose to do it?" The beast let out a roaring, demonic and mocking laugh.

When I was scraping away the last of the wax off the mirror on Halloween, I realized the wax was used to seal Denice inside while it acted as a warning sign. So, against the backdrop of the beast slamming into the mirror, I calmly set the ladder up beside the mirror and carried my bag of supplies up it. I set alight several large, black candles and placed them atop the mirror's frame. Then, I stood and watched, adjusting the candles and their molten flow, to produce a thick covering to seal up the mirror.

It was pathetic watching and listening to the beast switch back and forth between its form and Denice's, begging, pleading, and threatening me as the mirror's sheen dulled and then disappeared beneath wave after wave of thick, congealing black wax. The beast's attempts to dislodge the candles by crashing its body into the mirror failed miserably—doing so actually helped speed up the wax-melting process. With each of the monster's thrusts, more melted wax splashed out and exposed new wax to the flames.

Once the mirror was completely coated and the wax had cooled, I no longer heard or felt anything from within the mirror. Satisfied with my results, I covered the whole thing with moving blankets, and loaded it into the back of my truck.

The drive down to the dock was uneventful, and within thirty minutes, I was steering my boat toward the edge of the ocean's continental shelf. It took most of the day getting way out there, but as dusk approached, I chopped back the engine's throttle. Someone, or something, within the mirror sensed what I was about to do because of all the commotion coming from inside it. Without hesitation, I gave the mirror a shove. It dropped over the side of my boat and into the water.

As expected, the mirror didn't float at all. It shot straight down out of sight within moments. I thought it might flutter, like a sheet of paper or a leaf, but it seemed like whoever was guarding this portal wanted it buried deeply in the mud at the bottom of the Atlantic. Constantly scanning the surface for blobs of wax or pieces of wood, I waited until the sun was well beyond the western horizon to start the motor and head for home

The next morning, Nadine and I moved back into the house and resumed our normal routines. Nadine still had no memories of Denice and the mirror. Later that day, Nadine returned home with a shopping bag filled primarily with deep-cover cream. Ignorant of such things, I set the jars on her side of the bathroom counter and put the rest of the toiletries away.

As the steaks finished cooking outside on the grill, I called out to Nadine that dinner was ready.

***

"I'll be down in a minute, Honey," Nadine hollered. She dipped her fingertips into a jar of deep-cover makeup, and then leaned far over the bathroom sink until her face was just inches away from the mirror. She brought her coated fingertips up to her face, and then hesitated. While staring at her forehead, Nadine let out a low, rumbling chuckle. Then, she rubbed the makeup onto the pulsating patch of green skin.

*****

If you enjoyed this story you might like to read more of LC Cooper's writing. Such as...

Diary of a Reluctant Vampire

By LC Cooper

Eugene faces more than the usual challenges of a young teen. He's given a very short time to decide whether or not to become a vampire. He trips into love, but is it too late? What will his stepmother and stepsister say if he joins the forever-damned? The perks are incredibly tempting. Oh, what's a goofy little kinda-vampire to do?

*****

**I live with my wonderful husband,** our great kids, and our bratty cats in our cabin at the base of the smoky mountains. When not writing, I enjoy gardening, reading, vacationing in exotic places, and visiting family and friends. I have degrees in mathematics education and curriculum design, but with the fallout of that lousy system called common core, I prefer to write more than teach. My goal is to publish four novels every year, and I do enjoy writing short stories, so look for a few of those sprinkled in between the Novels. Note that I will always give my short stories away, whereas my Novels will always have a price tag unless there's a freebie promotion. ****

**Website:** <http://lccooperauthor.weebly.com/>

# The Blue Die

By Bonnie Mutchler

Matlyn stood on the weedy verge of the railroad tracks, staring across the gravel road at the tumbled down walls of the old cemetery. She was shaking though she wasn't sure if it was fear, anger or a bit of both.

She had just gotten herself calmed down when an owl's hoot made her heart start hammering a mile a minute. Damn that Rodney Lowner anyway. She might have considered putting out if it hadn't been an either or. She wasn't being shoved into anything. Though maybe she shouldn't have gotten so totally incensed she'd slammed out of the car. She'd really thought he'd tell her to get back in. Who would've thought the ass would just floor it, wheels spitting fine rocks at her as she watched the tail lights disappearing in the dark? And her damn phone battery was flat. What was the point of having a phone when the wretched thing was always dead when she really needed it? She guiltily thought about yesterday when she and Sharon were taking photos of all the hot boys in the mall. Maybe she should have plugged it in when she got home.

A chill wriggled its way up her back leaving behind goosebumps. Matlyn tossed her raven colored hair and squared her shoulders. There was nothing for it, if she wanted to get home tonight she had to cross the road and pass the cemetery entrance. She had been so pumped about tonight, the Halloween party and her sexy costume. Now she stood here shivering and it had instead become the worse night of her life. If she hadn't been so stupid, she would have at least grabbed her jacket out of the backseat. She was going to see that louse pay for this. That is if she didn't freeze to death first.

Matlyn fumbled in her bag and drew out a package of cigarettes and pulled one out. Her hand shook as she tried to light it, the slight wind making the flame dance in the dark. Taking a long drag, she blew out the smoke, then started across the gravel road, her heart in her throat. It felt like she was being strangled.

The cemetery was surrounded by a high stone wall, with scrolling metal gates at the entrance. On each side were ancient pine trees that looked about half dead, with scraggly branches here and there high up. Underneath them were a layer of pine needles that had been piling up since the turn of the century, and she didn't think it was the recent turn. The wind picked up, catching brown leaves from the ditches and sending them swirling in the air as misty clouds scuttled across the full moon.

She had just reached the entrance when she noticed a bright light rolling up to the clouds seeming to come from the center of the graveyard. It looked like a mammoth bonfire. Matlyn found herself paralyzed with terror as a blue gaseous cloud rolled out from the gate, whirling across the gravel until it had swallowed her up. She could feel nothing but a strange sensation of thrumming through her body.

Just then the lights of a car cut through the haze and brakes spun the tires on the gravel, throwing it up in a poof of dust. As it cleared she saw a long, dark blue limousine. The window slid down and the face of a man came into view. He was handsome with long scarlet hair and an aristocratic curved nose. Soft blue eye sparkled from his pale, ivory face, and she could just see the light colored shirt collar and knot of a red satin tie.

"I see you are in some distress, young lady." He said in a low, husky voice. "Perhaps I can be of some assistance?"

Young woman, indeed, why he couldn't be more than a few years older than herself. She started to turn away, after all how many times had her parents warned her about strangers? Then a blast of cold air struck her and a far away coyote howled and somehow their warnings flew out of her head.

"Yes, I could use some help. You see, my no-good lousy date dumped me out here and my coat is in his car and it's a long way back to town. I guess I could really use a ride, if you don't mind?" The words tumbled out mindlessly.

"But of course." A smile quirked at the edge of his lips. The door swung open and the light inside illuminated a plush interior with white leather seats surrounded by red velvet on the sides and ceiling. Across the width of the limo was a black marble bar, refrigerator and flip up table.

He moved over in the seat beckoning to her. Matlyn hesitated a moment and then slid in beside him. The door snapped closed behind her and she jerked, startled. Apparently the driver had come around behind her. He now nodded through the window, tipping his dark blue cap, before going back around the car.

"You don't know how grateful I am." She gazed over at the man. He looked expensively conservative in a black, pin stripped suit and crisp white shirt. His tie looked like a river of blood cutting through it. Even his black, shiny shoes whispered 'I'm filthy rich'. His beautiful hair was pulled back into a thick ponytail that went to the middle of his back.

"It really is nothing." He murmured as the car started to move. "You must tell me your name. I am Simon Knightly. You may call me Simon."

Matlyn suddenly felt shy. Here was obviously someone with plenty of money, who was probably important and she was a no one, dressed like a waitress in a tiny dress and 4 inch heels with enough Dippity Doo in her hair to glue a battleship to a dock.

"I'm Matlyn Summers. It's very nice to meet you." She murmured

He leaned back in the thick cushioned seat and smiled. "Ah Matlyn. It is a shame about your boyfriend. Leaving a young woman helpless in the dark and cold. We must remedy that. Allow me to mix you a lovely hot wine. Just the thing to warm your bones."

Reaching forward, he took out a bottle of deep red claret and a tall goblet. Pouring the liquor into the goblet he reached over and pulled a narrow stick from a holder and stuck it in the glass. She heard a sizzle and a warm aroma filled the car. He handed her the goblet.

"Drink up, my dear. For myself I prefer something a bit stronger. He took out a glass and poured two shots of bourbon. "To us and a Halloween to remember."

Matlyn wasn't too sure what that meant, but she lifted her glass and took a sip. It wasn't bad and did indeed warm her as it slid down her throat. Part of her brain was saying 'that might be drugged or poison, you fool.' But she ignored the little voice and instead took another, bigger, sip.

"By the way, I live on Farthing Street over by the new high school. It's about five blocks from Main Street, going west. It sure is great of you to give me a ride." Her voice sounded funny in her ears, like she'd been drinking a lot. She tipped the goblet back and guzzled the rest down. The goblet dropped with a thud and she fell forward into the darkness.

Matlyn's eyes fluttered as the fog slowly lifted. She gazed around her and found herself lying on a huge four poster bed. The posts were carved with grape vines and large clusters of ebony grapes. The canopy, bed curtains and bed spread were all emerald green satin. She sat up and further investigated her surroundings. The room was huge. The walls were made of smooth stone and flames crackled in a giant fireplace across the room from her. Scattered around were lounges and chairs, small tables and a large bureau in green satin and ebony that matched the bed.

Her heart started hammering as she wondered what he had given her. A Mickey Finn? What exactly was that, anyway. A date rape drug? She had to admit she didn't think so. Maybe she'd woken up before he could have his wicked way with her.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed when the Simon opened the door. An amused look was on his face and he had changed into a 17th century aristocrat's costume. "So I see you have recovered somewhat. I apologize for not taking you home, but I really doubted you wanted your parents to see you in that condition. Really, the wine I gave you was quite weak. I was surprised at the result. You must have had a lot to drink before that you didn't mention."

She had to admit she and the scumbag Lowner had had a good portion of the whiskey he'd swiped from his parents cabinet. That's one thing about having drunks for parents, they never missed the stuff because they thought they'd drank it themselves. Maybe Simon was right, maybe she had just been wasted and she should be grateful he didn't dump her on her doorstep, or worse, ring the bell and hand her over to her parents.

"Thank you." She murmured, barely audibly.

Simon grinned, "Well, since you're dressed for a party, young lady, why not come and join mine? I promise to steer you completely away from any of the lethal stuff." He lifted a beckoning hand toward her.

Matlyn hesitated for a moment and then shrugged and joined him. He tucked her hand into his arm and led her out into a long wide stone hall with royal blue carpet and paintings of scenes of Medieval life in large, heavy carved frames. At the end was a staircase that curved up to an upper floor. Whoever this guy was, he certainly seemed to have plenty of money from the looks of this place.

Upstairs they entered an enormous room, with a door obviously leading outside to the front of the house and across from it a set of double doors that were wide open showcasing a late autumn garden. On the other wall was another staircase which curved out of site, this time going up. The room was crowded with revelers in the most fantastic costumes she had ever seen. Vampires, werewolves, leprechauns, trolls, whatever creature you could think of, and all looked so realistic. She wondered if the people were some kind of make-up artists for movies or something. They certainly could have put any of them up on the screen and be believable.

As she stood on the edge of the crowd, Simon indicated she should continue into the room.

"Come meet some of the villains here." He laughed and she suddenly noticed his fangs. They looked so real she almost shuddered.

He led her over to a pair of werewolves, obviously a couple. They were dressed in normal clothes, but the fur suits seemed to fit them perfect and the eyes! They were totally terrifying with blood red contacts.

"This is Maud and Jeffrey. Watch your fingers, they do bite." Simon laughed. Matlyn realized she liked his laugh. It was musical and light hearted. He really was quite hot. Better than Rodney by miles. The music was almost hypnotic, the band, dressed as Cyclopes, were still very attractive. In fact most of the people's make-up seemed to have an other -wordly quality that she envied.

Matlyn nodded to the couple and others began crowding around her as her handsome host introduced each. She had soon danced with several hotties dressed as various creatures. All her trepidation quickly dissolved. She began to fan herself with her hand, and then wandered to the center of the room where she had spotted an enormous fountain with red, sparkling liquid pouring from the mouths of stone heads of people carved like evil harlequins. Each had their tongues stuck out and the liquid ran from it into a huge pool. On several little tables around it were cut glass goblets. Matlyn watched the others pick up goblets and scoop out the punch, before imitating them. Simon was suddenly next to her, gently taking the glass from her.

"No, no, sweet one. This is much too strong for someone so young. Now don't pout, most of the people in this room would love to be as fresh and innocent as you. Enjoy it while you may, you'll be old and tired of it all before you know it. Meanwhile, let me find you something you'll enjoy much more. " He took her elbow, steering her over into a corner where another fountain shaped as a kneeling woman with a swan head was spewing green fluid.

Simon let go of her arm and deftly scooped up a tall tulip glass full of the punch, handing it to her before he sipped punch from the other glass.

"Thank you." Matlyn smiled up at him. Just wait until she told her friends about tonight. They'd all be green with envy. She should take some pictures. It was then she remembered her purse and phone. She hadn't seen it when she woke up. "I'm having a wonderful time. By the way, do you know what happened to my purse?"

"Mmm. I didn't see it when I carried you in."

Oh, my God, she thought, he carried me in, in his arms like in a movie. A shiver of excitement ran through her. Why the hell did she have to miss that?

"I'll have my driver check the back seat, Princess. Meantime enjoy yourself." He smiled down, his pale blue eyes warm and soft.

"Would you dance with me?" She asked, oddly shy. After all he was an adult, not an immature stupid boy like she was used to, and he was so very handsome, well built and obviously successful, even though he looked to be in his early twenties.

"Of course. I would be delighted to dance with you." He set his glass down on the table, taking hers from her and setting hers beside his. He took her into his arms and she gasped. As they twirled around the dance floor she wished she had worn something more exotic than a stupid serving girl's outfit. Something with a long, floating skirt. She gazed up into his face and felt like Cinderella in the fairytale. Matlyn leaned her head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. She hoped she never woke up.

As the song ended, Simon suggested they go out into the garden to cool off. It was oddly warm in there. As they started out she saw off to the side a massive stone fireplace with gargoyles on each side. Inside flames roared from logs nearly as big as small trees. They passed on by it, then paused by the large opened double doors. He slid his coat off dropped it over her shoulders.

Outside the garden was lit by bright garden lights shining on the plants while leaving the paths discreetly dim. Matlyn could hear the scrunch of gravel or stone as they walked slowly down the path, his hand on her back, gently guiding her past huge colorful displays of mums and dahlias, asters and roses among the many. Here and there were secluded areas screened by tall hedges. Simon made small talk, trying to draw her out, but she felt tongue-tied and stupid.

They had gone down most of the twisted paths and were on their way back to the doors, yawning wide and glowing. She could already hear the music and the sound of loud conversations, when a man in a butler's uniform beckoned to Simon.

"Wait here, Pet. I will return momentarily." He stepped over to the butler and they spoke in quiet voices that were almost whispers. Simon nodded and the butler disappeared back into the shadows.

Simon stepped back to her, smiling. "Ah, Michael has found your purse. He has put it on the bar in the back so you will have it when you get home."

"But I wanted it now." Matlyn objected, "I need..."

He cut her off, "Oh, if you're in need of some cosmetics or something, I assure you the ladies powder room has anything you might need." Just then a beautiful woman in a long flowing black gown and blonde hair swept up into an elaborate updo swept past.

Simon raised his voice before Matlyn had a chance to explain she simply wanted her phone to snap some pictures, "Calisse, could you take my lovely young guest to the ladies? She thinks she needs a touch-up, though I can't imagine why." He quickly handed her off and immediately disappeared.

"No. Really, I was just asking about..." Matlyn sighed and gave it up.

Calisse smiled. She too had wonderful fangs and lovely pale skin. "This way," she said, leading the way back into the house and along the wall the opposite direction she and Simon had left from. Calisse mounted the upwards staircase and almost glided up the stairs to a long hallway with thick gold carpet and paintings from the Victorian period in heavy black frames. There were several thick oak doors and Calisse led her to the first on the right, pushing it open. Inside was a beautifully appointed ladies room, complete with a huge claw-foot tub, a massive vanity with nearly every shade of make-up, shadow, mascara and anything else one could think of. There was a smaller oak door that she assumed led to the stool. There was a pink lunge with silver flowers and curtains to match at the two small stained glass windows. It was so elegant and beautiful.

The willowy blonde, leaned over the vanity and applied more scarlet to her lips. Matlyn felt a measure of jealousy rise in her. "How long have you known Simon?" Her voice sounded demanding and she cursed herself.

"Oh, ages," Calisse replied indifferently as she tidied her shadow and mascara up. "You?"

"Oh," Matlyn decided Calisse apparently had no interest in him from the casualness in her voice. "We only met tonight. He's really quite nice."

"Mmmm. Mostly. He can be a devil now and then if he isn't kept under control, though I think he's softening up in his old age." She twirled one of the dangling golden curls. "Did you want to fix your make-up. I didn't mean to monopolize the mirror. Calisse stepped back.

"Oh, well, yes." Matlyn was reluctant to try to explain what she had really wanted. It did sound very adolescent to want selfies with the other guests, just because they all looked so good.

Calisse frowned, "Would you like some constructive criticism? I mean, I would be more than happy to show you some tricks to highlight your best features and hide the flaws."

Matlyn hesitated, then finally shrugged. What the hell? Calisse certainly looked good, so maybe she could give her some tips on how to look half as drop dead gorgeous.

Calisse began by using make-up remover over the girl's face and started over, doing one side and letting Matlyn try her hand at the other side until she got it to match. They were having such a good time Matlyn forgot to dislike the beautiful woman. Finally they finished and the dark haired girl stared in wonder at how terrific she looked. It was incredible. She was delighted and ready to go downstairs for another shot at her scrumptious host. Calisse looked at her with an amused expression, before leading her back downstairs.

Simon was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs and took her hand. "Ah, lovely lady, you just get more beautiful," then he lifted his eyes over her head to the tall blonde. "Calisse, you're die has not been cast. Please do so." The woman nodded and strode purposefully away.

"Die?" Matlyn asked curiously.

"It is of no matter, Poppet. Just a game we play each year at Halloween. Since you haven't been at previous parties, I'm afraid you can't enter, but I'll try to make it up to you with a dance. Shall we?"

The music was slow and Matlyn snuggled into him, their bodies moving as one. This was heaven. She could feel the strength of his arms encircling her and his scent, musky and intoxicating, filled her senses. His chest felt muscular and hard through his thin lacy shirt. She felt like she had always been there and always would be. The music switched to a livelier tune, but he still held her close and continued to move slowly against her. Matlyn felt desire deepen in her until she thought she might orgasm right there on the dance floor.

Suddenly the music stopped and Jeffrey stepped up to the microphone. "Attention!" The room quieted immediately "Be it known, the blues have won this year." A scattered groan went out from the crowd, but in that moment of relative silence a large clock bonged once.

"Oh, my gosh!" Matlyn jerked from his grasp. "I need to get home. I was supposed to be in before one."

"Of course, how foolish of me not to have asked about a curfew. Come, we'll leave immediately. " Simon must have signaled to the butler, because the man was there in a moment. " Jonathan, please tell Michael we need to leave now."

The man nodded and disappeared into the crowd. A few moments later she and Simon were out the front door and into the darkness. Her eyes had barely adjusted when the limo pulled in front of them. She looked back and caught a glimpse of a huge two story stone fortress like house with towers on each corner. She couldn't remember ever seeing such a place anywhere near her house. Then she was hustled into the back of the limo and Simon slid in beside her. The limo rolled on down the other side of the loop of drive and down onto a graveled lane, surrounded by tall poplars with thick brush and thorny raspberries tangled around the bottom. They sat in companionable silence as the lane twisted and turned before it eventually opened onto a back road.

They drove for some distance, turning this way and that. Simon had opened a soft drink for her and made himself a cocktail. Matlyn was trying to peer through the windows, but they were too dark to see through and all the twisting around had made her lose track of where they were. Finally the car stopped and Simon got out, holding his hand out to her. She got out behind him.

"Your bag," he reminded her. She ducked back in and snatched the bag from the bar. Simon walked her to the gate that opened between two hedges. There on the hedge was her coat she had left in Rodney Lowner's car. She took off Simon's and handed it back to him. Matlyn really didn't want to say goodbye. She didn't know how.

Simon smiled at her. "I hope you had a good time."

"It was so wonderful, Simon." She whispered. Her forehead wrinkled, "But will I ever see you again?"

He ran his forefinger down her cheek. His touch riveted her, "Oh, I think it is very possible in a year or two." He leaned down and captured her lips in a chaste kiss, then waved and climbed back into the car.

She watched until the tail lights disappeared, then nearly floated on a cloud to the door. A year or two wasn't so long to wait after all.

Simon leaned back in the large, squishy chair in a sitting room. Crossing his long legs, he sipped on a tall glass of scarlet liquid. He licked the remnant of salty, coppery fluid from his lips and smiled over to Calisse who sat in a matching chair on the other side of the crackling fire.

The leggy blonde smirked, "I think you made quite an impression on your guest tonight."

"Yes." Simon answered smugly. "She's a lovely girl. I can see her growing into a beautiful woman in a few years."

Calisse lifted a brow, "How much influence did you use to get the vote your way?"

"Me? Why, none at all. You know that's against the rules. I was just glad they voted to skip the hunt this year. As I said, she was a lovely girl."

*****

If you enjoyed this story you might like to read more of Bonnie's writing. Such as...

Tales of the Lost Prophets

By Bonnie Mutchler

A book of verse about life, passion, obsession, war and death. These are adult perspective and sometimes not geared for children.

*****

**Bonnie Mutchler grew up and has lived in the Midwest** all her life. She enjoys writing poetry, reading and listening to all kinds of music. Her great loves are her long haired Chihuahua, Mr. Mosie, and her one-eyed tuxedo cat, Blinky.

#  Unforgotten

By Joleene Naylor

Bugs chirped in thick grass and the sun descended in a pool of golden glow. A tiny car zipped down the country lane. Inside, Marjorie leaned casually against the door, her broad brimmed hat trimmed in fake flowers that almost matched the pattern on her dress. A large purse rested on the floorboard, and a pair of mismatched suitcases took up the backseat. Gordon, short sandy hair and pale complexion, gripped the steering wheel. His angry eyes darted back and forth between the road and his friend.

"You thought about throwing me to the wolves, didn't you?"

Marjorie shrugged. "Didn't you?"

Gordon's wide eyes skipped from the road to her, then back again. "No! Of course not!"

"I find that hard to believe." She lit a cigarette and cracked the window. "Any normal person would consider it with a detective breathing down their neck. Obviously I reconsidered. That's the part that counts."

"That's jolly great. 'It doesn't count if I don't _do_ it.' Of course it still counts!"

She blew out an aggravated stream of smoke and squinted at the countryside. "Your turn is coming up."

"If I wanted GPS alerts, I'd install one of the damned things."

Marjorie rolled her eyes but clamped her lips shut. Years of friendship had taught her that there was no point in talking to him when he was in one of his moods.

The next several miles passed in silence. It was Gordon who finally said, "I'm sorry, Margie. He just put me on edge. All those questions. 'Where were you on Friday last? Is it true you and Denise had a quarrel?' Who told him that, I'd like to know."

"It wasn't me, if that's what you're implying. I told them that I got to London on Tuesday, spent Wednesday with my aunt - we went round to a museum that had a dreadful exhibit of World War II relics. Really, why can't we let it go? Do we really need to relive it? It isn't as if it affected any of us."

"It affected our parents well enough."

"Not mine, dear. They weren't born yet. As I was saying, I told them that I had dinner with Cleo and her husband on Thursday and that on Friday you and I went to dinner and a movie –I showed him the ticket stubs." She prodded the giant purse between her feet. "And then we went to my room, had a drink, and you left at one in the morning." She snickered. "He tried to insinuate there was something sordid happening."

"Oh God! Not seriously?"

"Don't worry, I set him straight. I said, 'Gordon? Are you joking? I've known the bloke since grammar school. We gave it the old college try when we hit puberty, but that fell flat and we've never bothered since."

Gordon's face paled. "You told him about that?"

"Why not? It's been years, Gordy, and it really meant nothing."

"No, but he'll think it did. They'll work up a case that I'm secretly in love with you or some shite."

Marjorie snickered. "Are you?" When he looked blank she pushed, "Are you secretly in love with me?"

"Hardly. I adore, you dear, but you're an insufferable cow and I'd have to kill you."

Marjorie guffawed so hard that she choked on a lungful of smoke. "Really. I'm smoking and everything." When she had regained control she turned serious. "They don't know that anything has happened to Denise. She could be on an extended holiday."

"Tell that to her pig of a mother. She's the one kicking up the fuss. 'Denise hasn't rung in days. Where is she? What's going on?'."

"I don't suppose the answer, 'She's thirty-seven and doesn't need to ring her mum every day' went over well?"

He shook his head. "I didn't even try it. I used the 'I'm as worried as you' approach. Lot of good it did."

Marjorie patted him on the shoulder. "They always suspect the husband in these kinds of things. Too many spouses bumping one another off."

"How's Richard doing, by the way?"

Marjorie's eyes narrowed as she savagely stabbed her cigarette out in the ashtray. "You know very well how he's doing."

"His insurance money spends nicely?"

"You didn't complain when we were at the café." She grabbed her purse and sifted through it for the receipt. "If I recall your mutton was twice that of my salad."

"I was only teasing, Margie. Trying to lighten the mood a little. We are supposed to be on holiday."

She abandoned the search and tossed the purse to the floor again. "The detective found that odd. That we'd go on holiday together every year without having sex. I pointed out that I'd been married for most of it and now I'm only a widow for less than a year, so I wasn't ready to jump into anything - and do you know he had the nerve to ask how Richard died? I said, 'Heart attack', of course. And then I got a bit belligerent. 'What are you implying? Unless you can arrest me for feeding him too many fried foods and clogging his arteries, you owe me an apology.'"

"Did he apologize?"

"Of course. Offered condolences and all." She waved wildly. "You're supposed to turn there! Now you'll have to turn around."

"I'm taking a different way," he replied. "What else did the detective say?"

"About what? Richard? Not much. After that he dropped the subject altogether except right at the end when he asked whether you and Richard had got on. He kind of insinuated that maybe Richard would be jealous of you, so I told him, 'Of course they got on. Gordon's a bit like a limp sheep dog. He's not a threat to anyone.'"

"A limp sheep dog? What is that supposed to mean?"

"Just what it sounds." She produced another cigarette and lit it. "I was trying to make you look harmless, dear. A harmless bloke isn't as suspicious as a dangerous one."

"That's all well and good, but no bloke wants to be considered completely harmless."

"You should, given the circumstances." She inhaled deeply and let the smoke out again. "You'll need to turn eventually. I understand north, south, and all that well enough to know you can't end up east by going north."

"Would you stop fussing. What else did he ask you?"

She studied her friend a moment. "What did he ask _you_?"

"I told you. He wanted to know where I was, had Denise and I quarreled, and what was it about."

"And what did you tell him?"

"Obviously someone told him about it all, so it would do no good to pretend otherwise. I just said, 'We had a little row, the sort everyone has. She wanted to have children and I didn't think we could afford it'."

Marjorie winced. "I hope you didn't say it like that, all in the past tense. Never use past tense about someone who's missing. Makes people suspicious. You're supposed to be optimistic that they're still alive and so on and so forth."

"I don't know that I did. I might have used...what would it be called? Current tense?"

"Present tense, dear."

"Yes. Well, I might have done, anyway."

Marjorie flicked ashes out the window. "What did he say to that?"

"He asked if we couldn't afford children how could I afford to go off on holiday with an old school chum every year. I explained to him that a three day holiday isn't as expensive as a baby, and that if it was the travel agencies would all be out of business and then I'd be out of a job."

"He didn't ask about the significance of the date, did he?"

Gordon gaped. "Good God no! Why? Did he ask you?"

"Yes. He wanted to know why it was always the third weekend on October. I told him it was something from our youth, but after all these years I've forgotten what."

An uncomfortable silence followed. Marjorie quickly filled it. "Does Denise really want children? Isn't she knocking on a bit for that?"

"Denise? Yes, I rather think so. I told her as much and she burst into a cloud of tears and obscenities."

"No wonder. If you told me I was too old, I'd curse you, too. I guess that was the row that someone overheard and reported."

"That was it. There was a dose of 'You don't need to go on a bloody holiday' thrown in there, but I didn't mention that to the copper."

Marjorie's eyebrows went up. "You don't mean the little dear is jealous of me?"

"Not so much jealous of _you_ – she's met you – but jealous that I might have a moment's enjoyment she couldn't quash. She couldn't stand that – can't stand that."

"That's better dear. Present tense. Remember that."

He nodded. "It's her mother that's suspicious."

"I suddenly like her mother a bit more."

"What? You want them to suspect an affair? Really!"

"No, but there's no need to be quite so certain about it. A tiny doubt wouldn't have hurt your wife."

"Well she didn't have any. She was just angry that I was going when she wanted to have all those discussions about a baby."

They fell into silence again. The last of the sunlight disappeared and the mantle of gray over the landscape changed to the deep blue black of night. Marjorie put out her cigarette but soon lit another.

"Must you chain smoke?" Gordon asked.

"There's nothing else to do, unless you fancy a game of I Spy. I'll go first. I spy with my little eye something that begins with 'r'."

"Road. Very funny."

"You are good at this. Your turn."

"Quit being ridiculous."

Marjorie blew a puff of smoke towards her friend. "It isn't as if you're being talkative."

"I don't have anything to say. I just keep thinking of that detective and the way he looked at me. They've already been to the house. They did that on Wednesday, while you were enjoying your holiday."

"Yes," Marjorie drawled.

He dismissed her with a motion. "They came round and went over everything. They checked to see how many of her things were missing. Had she packed before she disappeared, and if so what had she taken? They went so far as to check our bank accounts and credit cards to see if she'd taken any money."

"All the details." Marjorie gave a knowing nod.

"Yes, yes. I expected them to dust for fingerprints next, but since it wasn't a crime scene they didn't. The constable rather hinted to me that he supposed she'd run off, no doubt with another bloke. Happens often enough, but her shrew of a mother was floating around, following the policemen and chattering on and on. Said she knew something funny had happened because Denise hadn't taken her raincoat. I imagine all that chin wagging is what prompted today's questions."

"Did you suggest to the detective that perhaps she went to find a man who wanted a baby?"

"I might have done, but not in so many words. He's hung up on the raincoat, too, because it was raining Friday, and why would she be out in the rain without it, especially if she was leaving? I said, 'I don't know. Maybe she forgot it. She would have had a lot to do in a rush; all the packing and whatever arrangements she must have made.' He didn't seem very impressed."

"They do that to make you uncomfortable. They're just hoping you'll make a mistake and admit to something. Oi. There's the village. I could use another pack of fags."

"No shops open, not at this time."

"We are getting back to our roots, aren't we?"

Marjorie didn't speak again until they parked in front of a small country cottage on the other side of the village. Gordon grabbed his suitcase from the back and then marched to the front door. He fetched the key from under a potted plant and disappeared inside. Marjorie counted the moments as each light popped on. She imagined him stalking through the rooms, checking for hidden psychopaths. At last, he leaned out the door and gave her an aggravated look that seemed to say "What are you waiting for?" She could hardly tell him she was waiting to make sure he didn't get killed before she risked it.

The inside of the cottage was as quaint as the outside. A note stuck to the table gave them directions for lighting a fire and working the stove. The two bedrooms had been prepared with fresh linen, and should they need anything please give Mrs. Maghenty a ring and she'd pop over as soon as she could.

"I'd be happier if you didn't," Gordon muttered and tossed the crumpled note into the fireplace. "I suppose you'll want a bath, Margie?"

"As a matter of fact, yes."

"Try not to hog all the hot water."

Marjorie stopped from smacking him and waddled off to the bathroom. The tub filled slowly, and as the water rose she closed her eyes. A scene rose behind them, painted in shades of gray and charcoal. The white thing fluttered at the edges; a bit of dress blown by the wind.

"Find me, Margie."

The voice was wispy, yet heavy like silt, and Marjorie opened her panicked eyes to find a ghostly figure. Disarrayed pigtails, broken glasses, and a set of eyes as cold as death looked back. Marjorie suppressed a scream and slammed her eyes closed. When she opened them again, she was alone but the bath had lost its allure. She dried quickly and hurried to bed, leaving a trail of whispered prayers behind her.

***

The Saturday sun rose watery behind a set of gray clouds. Marjorie shut her eyes against the pale light and tried to bury herself in bed. The loud knocking came anyway, followed by Gordon's, "Best get up. Lots to do today."

She checked the weather forecast on her mobile. Rain, rain, and more rain. Grumbling, she dressed and took her turn in the bathroom. With her breath minty fresh and her hair in a bun, she found Gordon waiting impatiently on the settee.

"We're going on a picnic in the middle of nowhere. You don't need to be done up."

She motioned to the plain dress stretched over her bulk and the heavy walking shoes. "Do I look done up to you? It takes longer than that to get done up."

"I imagine it would," he quipped. "You look tired. Did you sleep well?"

Marjorie started to lie, and then decided to throw the truth at him. "I saw Teresa last night."

He didn't answer, and she repeated herself.

"Yes, yes, I heard. But you can't have. She's dead."

"I know she's dead," Marjorie snapped. "That's what always makes it so unnerving."

"Always? As in you've seen her more than once?"

Marjorie gave an exasperated huff. "Yes! I see her every night around this time of year, but it's worse. She's more solid; more threatening. And she spoke. She's never spoken before."

Gordon cleared his throat uncomfortably. "There's no such thing as ghosts."

Marjorie narrowed her eyes at him. "Are you telling me she's never visited you?"

His looked away. "Don't be ridiculous. As I was going to say before you went barmy, old Mrs. Maghenty brought us a basket and directions to a picnic spot. She didn't even charge for it."

"How nice," Marjorie said sarcastically. "Your travel agent connections are really paying off."

Outside, the grass was damp, and Marjorie was glad she'd opted for closed toed shoes. Gordon hummed as they pulled onto the road and bumped over what looked more like a washboard than a lane.

"I've had a call this morning," Gordon said suddenly.

When no more came, Marjorie asked, "From whom?"

"The shrew herself. She got Denise's email today, saying she was in France, and, when the cops checked, the desk clerk agreed that she'd checked into the hotel on Wednesday and he'd seen her Thursday for sure, with a man no less. So that's cleared that."

"You seem quite cheerful. Shouldn't a man whose wife has left him for holiday with a Frenchman be a bit more morose?"

"Do you think so? I hadn't looked at it that way."

"Perhaps you should."

When the road ended, they parked and trekked for nearly a mile before they found the picnic spot, sheltered in a tree lined hollow. Marjorie spread out the blanket on the wet ground and then plunked down, huffing and wheezing.

Gordon stood, hands on his hips. Despite his posturing, his chest rose and fell in gasping breaths. "You should quit smoking, love."

"No, I should quit walking through the countryside." She gave him a calculating look. "I'm not carrying the picnic this far."

"You'll have to help. I can't do it on my own." He craned his neck in all directions. "At least we're alone."

"Aye. No other bloody fool is going to walk this far."

After a cigarette, Marjorie felt better, and she heaved to her feet and followed Gordon back to the car. "We'll need to stop for fags after this."

"Yes, yes. Fine." Gordon unlocked the boot and surveyed the large collection of gear. "This may take more than one trip."

Marjorie frowned at the chemical smell and the little heap of air fresheners, but let Gordon load her down with items. "The axe is too heavy," she complained as he forced it on her. "You're the man."

"You're sturdier than me, love. There, off you go. I'll get the rest."

She kept her nasty remark to herself and headed back to the hollow. She dropped her load and flopped back to her place on the blanket, wheezing and hacking.

"I'm not built for this."

Gordon grinned. "Better this than ballet. Unless it's that cartoon with all the music in it. What was it?"

"If you mean the hippo ballerinas then you'd best shut your pie hole before I snap your scrawny neck."

"No need to be touchy." He pointed to the basket. "Have a sandwich, then we'll get to it."

She shook her head. "Work before play, I always say. Let's get it done and then we'll have our lunch."

"Whatever you think is best." Gordon moved to a large bundle wrapped in black plastic garbage bags. He pulled back the plastic and the stench rolled up.

Marjorie shied away. Her eyes lingered on the glob of gore peeking out between mussed dark hair. A familiar apprehension fluttered in the pit of her stomach. "Where did you keep this?"

"In the trunk. I couldn't have them find it in the house."

"That explains the air freshners. You should have waited until yesterday to do it in the first place. I said-"

He rolled his eyes. "Yes, I know, but if I had, there wouldn't have been time for anyone to see her in France, not while you had an alibi. Never mind. Do you want to give this a go, or should I?"

"Oh, let me, I suppose." Marjorie pulled the rain poncho on and hefted the axe. She surveyed Denise's purple, bloated body, and picked the best angle of attack. Then, she dug in her feet, bent her knees, and raised the axe over her head. With a cry from an Asian movie she swung.

Gordon leapt back as a fine spray of blood splattered at impact. Marjorie grunted, then swung again and again. After a fifth swing, she stopped to lean on the axe, gasping. "It's harder to chop off her head than I thought it would be."

Gordon pulled on his own poncho and rested the axe from her. "Let me try."

As he hacked at the body, Marjorie stepped back and lit another cigarette. "I don't see why we need to bother with this."

"I told you, we have to remove the head, the hands, and the feet or they can identify it."

"And do what with them? Unless you're planning to put them back in your suitcase?"

"Very funny." He wiped the fine spatter of blood from his forehead. "Fine. We'll bury her as is. But you have to help dig."

He threw the axe aside and went for the shovel. Marjorie watched as he worked, and only took her turn when he shoved it on her. Sweat rolled down her face, and tiny rivulets tickled her back and her legs. As she heaved scoop after scoop aside, the heavy smell of dirt filled her nose and reminded her of childhood expeditions.

"Remember that summer when we made the bird cemetery?"

Gordon looked up from his tourist guide book. "Yes, quite. I was thinking of that myself. Digging them up to see how they'd decomposed."

"Aye. Just like that. Though we won't be digging this one up, I dare say."

"No, no we won't."

When the hole was more than waist deep, Gordon helped Marjorie out. He rolled the plastic wrapped bundle inside with a crinkly plop, then started filling the hole in again. Marjorie watched as the bundle slowly disappeared beneath shovelfuls of soil.

"She really wanted children?"

Gordon nodded.

"Ugh. Imagine changing all those nappies and cleaning up the drool and the mess."

"I did," Gordon puffed. "Imagined it. I mean."

"I wondered what prompted it all. It seemed odd timing."

"Not odd at all. You were coming for your yearly visit anyway."

"Yes, but to make sure she was seen while I was 'accounted for' I had to make my usual five day visit stretch two weeks. It looked odd."

"You're a new widow. Maybe the gloomy season has you depressed?"

"The only thing I'm depressed about is that you've taken advantage of me."

He stopped digging to stare at her. "How?"

"With this deal. You didn't have to help dig a grave or haul a body. I didn't send you to France, checking in under false names and hiring men to walk around with you. You weren't even there when Richard died!"

"No, but I had to get the stuff and post it, didn't I? Do you think that was easy?"

"Easier than administering it and praying they didn't do an autopsy."

"Why would they? And even if they did, so long as they didn't test for digoxin you'd be fine."

Marjorie covered her ears. "Don't! Don't tell me the name. The less I know."

"So I shouldn't tell you my plans for the old shrew?"

Marjorie lowered her hands and Gordon went on, "I have some left over from Richard. A bit in her tea should work the same for her as it did for him. She has a bad heart, old bat, and no one will think twice when it does her in."

"I suppose not. I'll be interested to see how you pull it off." He looked at her hopefully and she shook her head. "I meant it figuratively. It would be suspicious if I was still here when she dies. Besides, I told the detective I'd be home again on Tuesday."

With a snort of contempt, Gordon turned back to his task. The heavy air was silent except for the call of birds and the sound of the dirt.

"Do you care if I check my email?"

"No, not at all," Gordon muttered.

She nodded absently, her hands and eyes moving over the space around her. "What have I done with my mobile?"

"How the bloody hell would I know? Have you checked your purse?"

She pulled the bulging monster towards her and rifled through the contents. "Oh! Yes, here it is. But there's no signal. Well, never mind."

Gordon only rolled his eyes.

When the mound was finished, he jumped up and down on it a few times for good measure, then they both peeled off their rain ponchos and sat down to tea. The sandwiches were warm. What should be moist was dry, and what should be dry was moist, but they were better than nothing.

"You know," Gordon said around a mouthful. "On one hand it's good that Denise was such an exercise fanatic. It made her easy to carry, but on the other hand if she could have just died of a heart attack too things would have been simpler."

Marjorie muttered and looked up to the heavy sky. Perhaps it would have been better had she kept the poncho on.

"Miserable weather," Gordon commented.

"Aye, but it fits. Tomorrow's the anniversary, you know."

He shrugged and poured some more tea from the thermos.

"You ignored me when I said that I saw her last night."

"You get this way every year," Gordon observed over his plastic cup. "That's why we started this annual holiday. To cheer you up and chase away your crazy hallucinations."

"They aren't hallucinations. She wants justice."

"Justice is in the eye of the beholder." He drained his cup, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "I suppose we'd best head back to the cottage for a bath each and then make ourselves visible somewhere. The guide book suggests some iron age remains nearby. There's also some old church near the next village over. There's bound to be witnesses – erm, sight seers – there."

They packed up and did just that. Marjorie took some unenthusiastic snaps of lumpy ground, and then of the old church. She half listened to the legend of the well-worn statue and only perked up when they stopped at a pub for dinner.

It was dark when they got back to the cottage. Mrs. Maghenty had been, and left a note and food in the ice box. Marjorie poked a covered dish but abandoned it for bed. She was nearly asleep when she felt the eyes on her again; cold gray eyes.

Marjorie huddled under the quilt like a shield and tried not to look at the figure of the girl. Her tattered form glowed in the light from the flashing lightning, and the thunder seemed like an echo of her anger. "I want to be found."

"I-I can't very well do that," Marjorie stammered desperately. "Please, Teresa. Please go away. It's been years. Rest in peace."

"I can't. Find me, or I'll make sure they know what you've done. What you've both done."

Before Marjorie could plead further, the child was gone.

***

Monday morning dawned drizzly and chill. Marjorie slumped before the fireplace, trying to coax heat from the tiny snapping fire.

"You look like hell," Gordon observed as he took his place next to her.

"You're not much better. Didn't you sleep well?"

"The thunder kept me awake. You?"

She arched an eyebrow. "Was it thunder, or did Teresa stop in to say hello to you?"

He shook his head, as if chasing away the very notion. "You're not on this again? There's no such thing as ghosts."

"Tell that to Teresa. Do you know what she said? She said that unless we 'find her' she's going to make sure they know what we did."

"By what we did you mean..."

"The obvious, I imagine."

"How is a ghost – an imaginary ghost – going to turn us in? It isn't as if she can testify in court."

"I don't know, Gordon, but I don't like it. Perhaps we should do as she says."

"You're not serious? I imagine they've knocked that old building in long ago. I'm not keen to go digging it up. Besides, even if we did, how would we explain it? Would you say you had a clairvoyant dream and Teresa led you to her remains? Honestly, love, think these things through. I know the anniversary of it all has you muddled, but do try to be logical."

"I have done. Who told you to pack a bag for Denise? Who said to withdraw money using her cash card?"

"Who forgot the raincoat? Oh, it doesn't matter. Let's get packed, then we'll stop at the pub for brekkie, and on to a couple of sites before we head home. We want to be seen enjoying our holiday."

Marjorie sighed. "Fine, Gordon. But maybe you should look more concerned and less 'enjoying'."

"I'll consider that."

The pub was crowded, and the food tasted like sawdust in Marjorie's mouth. The memory of the chilling gray eyes was too fresh and clear for her to think of much else. She distracted herself by cycling through her voice mail, and very nearly left her mobile behind on the table.

"Wouldn't do to leave that behind," Gordon commented as he shoved it in her hand. "You should be more careful."

They made their detours, then headed back to London. As they neared their destination they passed the rusted faded signpost for their old village.

"Turn here," Marjorie said.

Gordon drew to a stop next to the offshoot road. "Are you feeling nostalgic, or are you plotting to look for Teresa?"

"Maybe a little of both. You can dismiss it all you want, but you didn't see her."

"Yes I have," Gordon snapped. He cringed in regret as Marjorie gaped.

"But you said-"

"I didn't want to alarm you, all right? It's just a phantom. A hallucination. A specter. It can't hurt us."

"How do you know?"

"If she could have, she would have." He sighed. "Fine. We'll drive past, but that's the best you're getting."

Marjorie took her victory and settled back stiffly in the seat as he navigated the car down the narrow road. Houses sprang up along the side of the road like spring sprouts, closer and closer together, until they reached the village itself.

Gordon turned and took them past the school, and then out to the far edge where the old mill stood. In a stagnant pool that had long ago been a flowing stream, the old mill wheel still stood upright. Saplings grew through it, their branches wrapped between the rotting spokes. Spray painted boards were nailed over the building's windows and a sign warned trespassers away.

"I'll be. It's still standing."

A hole in the roof was a black eye that stared back at them, offering scrutiny for scrutiny. Marjorie looked over the miserable mess; dry weeds rattled around the sides, and dead ivy worked its way upwards. The heavy sky pinged raindrops against the stone walls. One of the boards was loose and cocked at an angle.

As if he'd read her mind, Gordon commented, "You'll never fit through. And even if you did, the place would probably collapse. You've had your look, let's go."

He reached to put the car in gear, and she caught his hand. "Do you remember it, Gordy?"

He pulled away. "Of course. You don't forget things like that."

Marjorie chewed absently at a fingernail as she looked past him to the ghost of her memories. "It was raining that day, too."

"It's always raining. Can we go?"

She gave an exasperated huff. "Fine, Gordon. But be it on your head."

They pulled back onto the main road and as the village slipped away he grew more cheerful. "If you're worried, Margie dear, you can always go back and excavate her yourself."

Her only reply was a glare.

***

It was evening when they parked in front of Gordon's house. Margie's car sat in the driveway where she'd left it, and she contemplated getting in it and taking off. What good would waiting until tomorrow do? But that was the plan. That was the routine. That was the way it always was.

Except Denise wasn't there this year.

Marjorie heaved her suitcase from the tiny backseat and followed Gordon inside. The house was unusually dark and quiet. She hesitated just inside the door as Gordon moved through the room flipping on lights. She doubted there was a killer hiding out, but it never hurt to be sure.

When Gordon came back alive she hurried inside and shut the door behind her.

"Not much in the ice box. We could do takeaway? I think Cho Mang or whatever they call it is still open."

"Chinese is fine," Marjorie muttered.

"It beats the healthy crap Denise made – makes. I'm sure she's still eating it. There in France. Where she's with a mysterious man." He paused. "I don't sound heartbroken enough, do I?"

"Not by half. It doesn't matter. I'll take General Tsou's, two egg rolls, and a side of noodles."

"Rangoons?"

"No, I've never liked them."

"All right. I'll be back in half a tick." With a wave he disappeared through the door, car keys jingling in his hand.

Marjorie made a trip to the loo, then settled on the couch. The house creaked ominously around her, and she fancied she could feel Denise staring at her accusingly.

"I didn't kill you," she said reasonably. "I didn't even ask Gordon how he did it, though from the look of your head I imagine a blunt object was involved. I hope he was smart enough to get rid of it."

The silent house didn't answer.

"You shouldn't have pushed him, dear. Gordon was never big on children, even when he was one. Neither was I, come to think of it. I suppose that's how we fell in together. I can remember Barney's seventh birthday party. Gordy and I stood by the fence and refused to join in the games. 'They're stupid,' he'd said, and I'd agreed. 'Look at those kids running around in hopes of winning a bit of candy. It's not even very good candy.' From then on we were chums. 'They're all too noisy,' Gordon used to tell me. 'Screaming and running and shrieking and making messes. I hate messes.' Ah. He was old even when he was young."

Marjorie wished suddenly for a cup of tea. Denise managed to take the flavor from food, but tea was one thing she'd never ruined. Pity she wasn't there to make it.

"Never mind dear, I'll help myself."

Marjorie pulled up from the couch and waddled into the neat kitchen. A shiny red tea kettle sat on the back of the stove, and she found the tea hiding in a cupboard. While she waited for the water to heat, she amused herself by rifling through the cupboards. They were far too clean. No wonder Denise wanted children, she obviously had no life.

"You didn't find me."

At the sound of the raspy voice Marjorie jumped and spun around. The ghostly Teresa stood in the center of the room. Around her neck was the thick, knotted handkerchief and the part of her pigtails was split open and black with shiny blood.

"I'm- I'm sorry, Teresa. I tried. Gordon said-"

"You didn't try, Margie."

"I did. I promise I'll go back later. Alone."

The ghost shook her head, unblinking eyes focused eerily on Marjorie. "Today was the anniversary. Thirty years. Thirty years since I died and was left in that building. You know where I am Margie. You and Gordy. I've warned you both. Now you'll be sorry."

"Thirty years isn't a magic number," Marjorie stammered. "Thirty-one years is just as good, or thirty years and two weeks, or..."

She stuttered to a stop when she realized that Teresa had disappeared.

When Gordon came back, Marjorie was huddled on the couch, clutching a cup of tea as though it was sanity. He frowned at her pale face and set the takeaway bag aside. "Do you feel well?"

"It was Teresa. She showed up while I was in the kitchen. She's angry, Gordy. She wanted to be found on the thirtieth anniversary."

"No, you wanted to find her. It's all in your head." He turned to the bag and handed out the cartons. "Chow Mein?"

"You admitted you've seen her, so how can it be in my head?"

"In _our_ heads, then. General Tsou's. Egg rolls. Fried Rice...ah, Fortune Cookies."

Marjorie took her food, but the fun had been sapped out of it. She dug listlessly at the cartons, and finally tossed aside the chopsticks in disgust. "We could still go back."

"What? At nine o'clock at night? It would be ten before we got there. Are you planning to sneak around in the dark?"

"I was just saying. I tried to call you, after she disappeared, but I couldn't find my blasted mobile."

"Nothing new there." He handed her several sauce packets. "If you want to worry about a dead person, worry about Denise. She's more recent, and we're more likely to get fingered for it. Once it comes out, it's likely they'll look into Richard's case, as well. I don't know if they can still test for the digoxin or not. Might still be in the tissue. And if I've managed to get Denise's mother by then that will compound it. We'd be guilty of triple homicide. Now eat."

Though his speech did little to cheer Marjorie, she tried her dinner again. After several bites, she asked, "Don't you feel guilty?"

"About Denise and Richard? God no. Denise was a thorn since I was tricked into marrying her, you know that. And as for Richard, I never liked the pretentious prat. Always thought he was better than everyone."

"I meant about Teresa. Her family-"

"Didn't give a wit. Her mum couldn't be bothered to look for her, not with seven other children to take care of, and God himself only knows who her father was. Certainly not that rough swarthy fellow her mother knocked around with. I think they were mostly relieved to have one less mouth to feed."

"Yes, I know. I was going to say that her family was awful enough, then to have an ending like that..."

"Enough. Teresa is under the paving stones of the old mill, and that's where she should stay, not here as the subject of our every conversation. Do try to think of something more cheerful."

"And what's more cheerful? Denise's murder? What did you bash her head with, anyway?"

He slurped a noodle. "The tea kettle." Marjorie balked and he shook his head. "Not that one, love. I bought a new one afterwards."

"I had no idea a tea kettle was so lethal."

"It is when it's full of tea."

"You're lucky you weren't burned."

"I had mitts on, actually. You know, for taking pans out of the oven."

"They're not water proof," Marjorie observed.

"No, but they took the burn out of it. She was surprised."

"I imagine she was. If someone clubbed me with a tea kettle I'd be surprised too."

Gordon mopped his face and went for the TV remote. "Wonder what's on telly."

They ate to the sound of imported television. As Gordon cleared away the mess, he discovered the fortune cookies. "Here you go, Margie. See what your future holds."

She snapped open the cookie, but there was no paper inside.

"That's hell. Here, let's see what mine says." Gordon cracked his, but met with the same results. "Gor blimey! If it wasn't so late, I'd take these back and demand proper ones; ones with proper fortunes in them. A fortune cookie without a fortune is just a cookie, and not a very good one at that."

Marjorie discarded the cookie bits and lit a cigarette. Gordon waved the smoke away. "You could do that outside."

"Out there, in the dark? No thank you. Your neighbors could be homicidal maniacs. Just last week your wife was clubbed to death with a tea pot. Think what might happen to me."

His frown deepened. "Very funny."

"I rather thought so." She blew an especially large puff at him.

Gordon checked the clock, rubbed his arm uncomfortably, and finally muttered, "It's getting late. I have to be up early for work tomorrow. I'll get you a blanket. And a pillow."

He disappeared and returned with the items. "There you go. I'll see you in the morning."

She wanted to bite off something really sarcastic, but he was gone before she could think of it, so she settled for blowing another cloud of smoke after him.

"Sorry beggar."

When her cigarette was done she made a last search for her mobile, even digging through her massive purse. When that turned up nothing, she slipped outside and went through the car. The quest was fruitless, and she finally tromped to Gordon's room and knocked on the door.

His voice was muffled. "Huh? What?"

"Have you seen my mobile?" she called.

"No...is that what you woke me up for? Not exactly an emergency, is it?"

"It might be. I can't find it anywhere. Do you still have it? From the pub this morning?"

"No. I handed it back to you."

"Well I can't find it."

He yawned loudly. "Maybe your ghost has it. Go to sleep, Margie, and look for it in the morning."

"What would a ghost do with a mobile?"

"It was a joke, love. Go to sleep."

She growled a response, then stomped back to the living room. With nowhere else to look, she surrendered and readied for bed. She stretched out on the couch, covered with the stiff scratchy blanket, but she couldn't sleep. A cup of tea seemed like a good idea, so she headed to the kitchen and put the kettle on. The shiny, brand new kettle.

She'd just taken the tea from the cupboard when a faint glow started in the doorway. She closed her eyes tightly, but the light grew brighter and brighter, until she could see it through her eyelids.

"Look at me, Margie."

She didn't want to, but she did it anyway. Teresa stood next to the stove, wearing the same torn dress as always. White, like a shroud, and stained with blood and dirt. Her bedraggled pigtails were spotted with stringy algae, and one of the lenses in her crooked glasses was broken. The thick handkerchief was tied tight around her neck, and the gash in her head leaked brains and blood into her hair. Skinny wrists were bruised and fingernails were caked with dirt and blood. Her knees were scraped, her teeth were black with silt, and one shoe was missing. She was as miserable as her resting place, as abandoned and unloved as the old mill.

"You didn't find me."

Marjorie fell back against the counter and tried to force words through her terror tightened lips. "I-I told you-"

Teresa shook her head. "I warned you, Margie. It's been thirty years today. Do you remember it? The way the rain beat on the old roof. And the pool overflowed so that water trickled between the stones and almost to the edge of the road. Do you remember what I was doing?"

"Yes," Margie croaked. "You were chasing a frog when Gordy and I walked by." In her mind she could see the skinny eight year old hopping from puddle to puddle, her pigtails flapping.

"You were older than me."

"Yes, a year ahead of you. Gordy had just turned nine and gotten those handkerchiefs for his birthday." Those blasted monogrammed handkerchiefs.

Teresa tugged at the one tied around her throat. "Do you remember what happened?"

"It wasn't meant to go so wrong!" Marjorie cried. "You splashed water on Gordy and we thought it would be fun to scare you. That was all. I-I was barely involved. He was the one who wrestled you down and pushed your face in the water!"

Teresa's ghostly accusing eyes burned through Marjorie. "You didn't stop him."

"No, I-I didn't stop him. I laughed. You flailed and sputtered, and there was muck in your hair and it all seemed so funny, but it wasn't."

"And then?"

Marjorie's mind conjured the scene in muted cloudy colors. "And then...Gordy's face changed. He was snarling, like the Jacobson's dog when it cornered a rabbit, and his arms strained with the effort of pushing your head into that dirty water. You got loose, you scratched his face and – and you threatened to tell."

"And that's when he asked you to help."

"Yes." The words tumbled from Marjorie's lips, freed after thirty years of silence. "I tackled you to the ground and held you down while he tied the handkerchief around your throat. He had that same look, gleaming eyes and bared teeth, and he pulled that handkerchief tighter and tighter. You choked and coughed and turned funny colors, but you were still kicking. That's when he got impatient and grabbed the rock."

Marjorie's heart pounded, just as it had that day, and her palms were slick with sweat. "He raised it and then he brought it down on your head, hard. But it wasn't like telly. You didn't go still. You kept thrashing and you screamed. I had to shove a handful of mud in your mouth to make you stop. You choked on it, I think you swallowed some, because I had to stuff more and more, and he hit you again and again and then – then you finally stopped. And he sat back, straddling you, and we both just looked at you, all dirty and bloody, and then he met my eyes and said, 'We better hide her somewhere.' And he was right. If someone found you we'd be in trouble, so we hauled your body into the old mill. It was dark by the time we got the floor stone dug out – we had to use a stick and a broken piece of pottery, and then we used our hands to dig your grave, and stuffed you in it. But it wasn't deep enough, and the stone wouldn't go flat, so we jumped up and down on it until it would. I heard your bones crunching, but I didn't think about it. I couldn't. And by then it was so late – past dinner time – and we had to run home in the rain. I lost after school privileges for a week for being so late and for ruining my school dress and Gordy lost his train set and...and..."

"And I lost my future."

Thunder rumbled and Marjorie jumped. "Yes," she squeaked, her fervor gone to fear. "We didn't mean to. I've always felt terribly about it. Please, Teresa. I'm so sorry." Tears slipped down her chubby cheeks. "So sorry."

"You will be."

The tea kettle whistled shrilly and Teresa disappeared, like a light being shut off. Marjorie wiped her damp palms on her nightdress and forced her shaking fingers to make the tea.

The thunder cracked again and the power snapped off. She stifled a scream and started to turn when she saw the blinding white glow of Teresa. The girl stood just behind her, the tea kettle raised in her hand. Marjorie managed to cry "No!" before pain exploded through her skull. The room dipped black, and then she saw a close up of the kitchen tile. The pain was unbearable, like her whole head had been fractured. She tried to raise her hand to check for blood, but it wouldn't work right.

A pair of dirty feet were suddenly in front of her; one shoe on and one shoe off. She followed the legs up with her eyes, all the way to Teresa's emotionless face.

"Gordy," Marjorie croaked.

"Don't worry about him. I made him a special cup of tea with the last of those crushed pills he's been keeping. When he comes out to find you on the floor he'll panic. He'll need to calm down so he can figure out how to hide you, and he'll drink the cup. It will be the last thing he does. You had no fortune in your cookies because you have no future, Margie. Just like me. We're all nobodies now."

And then Teresa brought the kettle down again.

***

The detective shook his head at the scene – people he had interviewed personally only a few days ago now lifeless corpses. He turned to his subordinate. "You want to explain that again?"

"As far as we can tell he clubbed her in the head with the tea pot, then committed suicide. There's an empty pill bottle on the countertop next to the tea tin."

"A lover's spat, maybe?"

"I'm not so sure, sir. Next to the tea cup were a pair of ominous fortunes, the kind you get in the cookies from the Chinese takeaway."

"Lots of people save those. They're hardly cause for murder and suicide. Now what were you saying about the mobile?"

He held up the bagged item. "We found it on the coffee table with a note that says 'Listen to this'. There's just two recordings on it. Here." He manipulated the menu through the bag. "The first one is a conversation between the two of them, confessing to killing their spouses."

Gordy's voice sounded muffled and flat. _"If you want to worry about a dead person, worry about Denise. She's more recent, and we're more likely to get fingered for it. Once it comes out, it's likely they'll look into Richard's case, as well. I don't know if they can still test for the digoxin or not. Might still be in the tissue. And if I've managed to get Denise's mother by then that will compound it. We'd be guilty of triple homicide. Now eat."_

There was the sound of chewing and then Marjorie asked, _"Don't you feel guilty?"_

" _About Denise and Richard? God no. Denise was a thorn since I was tricked into marrying her, you know that. And as for Richard, I never liked the pretentious prat. Always thought he was better than everyone."_

The detective tried to hide the smugness in his voice. "I knew he was up to his elbows in it!"

The policeman nodded. "It goes on. In a moment he admits to hitting his wife in the head with a tea kettle."

The detective raised his eyebrows. "A tea kettle?"

"Aye. And then they gave her husband enough digoxin to give him a heart attack. We don't know for sure, but I'll bet the tox report on him comes back positive for the same thing."

The detective looked thoughtful, and the constable stopped the recording and opened the other. "It gets odder. This one is just the woman talking."

Marjorie's voice played through the mobile phone's tiny speaker, quiet enough that the detective had to lean closer. _"It wasn't meant to go so wrong! You splashed water on Gordy and we thought it would be fun to scare you. That was all. I-I was barely involved. He was the one who wrestled you down and pushed your face in the water!"_ There was a pause and then, _"No, I-I didn't stop him. I laughed. You flailed and sputtered, and there was muck in your hair and it all seemed so funny, but it wasn't."_

"Who is the 'you'?"

"She mentions a Teresa at the end – says 'Please, Teresa. I'm so sorry.' You might find this hard to believe, but I was talking to Barney just the other day about cold cases and he said they had one in the village he grew up in. A missing girl name Teresa O'Grady who'd just disappeared – almost thirty years ago to the day. I'm not saying that's it, but it might be worth looking into."

The detective motioned him on. "Go ahead. You never know, we might get lucky."

"Right-o."

The constable started through the door when the detective called him back. "By the way, those fortunes you mentioned, what did they say?"

"They were morbid, sir. Not your run of the mill stuff at all. One said 'Your past will come back to haunt you'"

"And the other?"

"'As you do unto others, so will they do to you.'"

Instinctively, they both looked to the tea kettle.

*****

If you enjoyed this story you might like to read more of Joleene's writing. Such as...

Shades of Gray

by Joleene Naylor

**When Patrick is found dead in his apartment,** Katelina is left in a vacuum of uncertainty with no leads. Then the enigmatic Jorick appears. In a single sweep he turns over the rocks of reality to reveal what hides underneath in the shadows; monsters that she thought only existed in horror movies.

Trapped in a nightmare, Katelina is forced to accept the truth of vampires; vampires who want her dead for her association with Patrick. Jorick saves the day, but what should she do when her hero turns out to be one of the monsters? Can she really trust – and even love – someone who isn't human?

Caught between light and dark, Katelina and Jorick must travel down a path of mystery and terror as their pasts are slowly revealed and their passions ignite, in a world that smells like blood and tastes like fear.

*****

**Joleene Naylor is the author of the glitter-less** Amaranthine series, a world where vampires aren't for children. As a compliment to the novel series, she has also written several short stories, including the _Vampire Morsels_ collection, and the handbook _The Amaranthine Files_.

In what little time is left she watches anime and updates her blogs, all from a crooked Victorian house in Villisca, Iowa. Between her husband and her pets, she is never lonely, and should she ever disappear one might look for her on a beach in Tahiti, sipping a tropical drink and wearing a disguise.

**Website** : http://JoleeneNaylor.com

#  The Midnight Ritual

By C.E. Cason

David jerked awake, startled by some sound. He lay tense for a moment, listening intently as his eyes adjusted to the dark of the room. He heard quiet gurgling and cooing, almost like laughter, coming from the baby monitor on the bedside table and felt the tension leave his shoulders. _Just the baby._

Shelly stirred and gave a quiet moan beside him, preparing to get up. David put a loving hand on her shoulder and whispered, "I'll get him."

"Okay," she muttered as she drifted back into sleep.

David sat up and swung his feet off the bed to the floor. He sat for a moment rubbing sleep from his eyes as he listened to the baby's noises through the monitor. He tensed again and swung around to stare at the monitor as he heard what sounded like whispers coming through. A man? A woman? Again he heard the whispering, definitely sounding like a man this time.

Moving as quickly as he could without waking his wife, he moved through the darkened bedroom and out into the hall. The door to the baby's room, normally left open during the night, had been pulled to, but not latched. He stood at the door considering his next move when he heard someone speak.

"I think he likes you!" a deep voice tinged with humor – clearly masculine – came through the door. He was quiet, as if trying to avoid waking anyone.

"Ach, it's drooling," a second man's voice said, equally quiet. "Here, you take it." There was a brief pause before the man spoke again, hissing threateningly, " _Take it!"_

David felt a chill run through him as he heard that hissing voice. He should have felt angry that someone had broken into his home and was now in his child's room. Strangers were in there, potentially threatening the life of his three month old son, yet he couldn't move, held in place not by the fear for his son that he _should_ have felt, but rather by the fear that he would recognize the people in the room.

Finally, hand trembling, he pushed the door open. His breath caught and his knees buckled as he saw the three figures standing near the baby's crib – Nina, the student who was forever questioning and challenging him in class; Tanr, the fire-haired lord of the dark; and Suirr, oldest of the lords of light, cradling his son in his arms as if it were perfectly reasonable for him to be there. All three swung their eyes toward David in calm expectation.

David gripped the door jamb with all his strength, willing himself to remain standing in the face of the two Ancients. They were supposed to be gone, beyond reach; _dead_ , as far as this world was concerned. Isn't that what the last battle had been about? Good defeating Evil, and _both_ parties leaving the world in peace? How the hell had they come back? He gazed at his student, her dark hair left to flow over her shoulders, the dark of her hair blending into the black of her robes.

_Robes._ They were all wearing robes! A ceremony? What were they doing to his son? David took a halting, clumsy step into the room, one hand reaching toward his son while the other still clung tightly to the door jamb beside him. This couldn't be happening!

Nina moved first, taking the baby from Suirr and cradling him in her arms. "Don't worry, Dr Stovall," she said as she made sure the baby was comfortable. "We wouldn't start without you here."

The three stood in the baby's room, watching David and waiting for him to join them by the crib. He looked at Nina again, holding his son in her arms. Nina! How had Nina come to be involved with the Ancients?

"Some came before," she said, as if reading his thoughts. "There was _something_ before there was light and dark, wasn't there? Something with no polar opposite, from which both darkness and light were brought forth?"

_Wild magic._ David's heart nearly stopped as he considered the ramifications of _three_ Ancients coming together for a ceremony involving his son. "No," he moaned softly, "no, no, no! I was the last! There were no more after me." He whispered the last.

Suirr shrugged. "Nature abhors a vacuum," he remarked. Tanr snorted in derision. Suirr held out his arm and gestured for David to join them. "Come, Guardian," he said, "do not make us delay any longer."

David cringed at the old title. He had been relieved of that duty, hadn't he? There wasn't supposed to _be_ anything to guard anymore! He remained in the doorway.

"Come!" Suirr demanded.

This time, David could not disobey. He joined them by the baby's crib, completing the small circle of lords gathered there. Although he was the boy's father, he knew he would have no say in the outcome of the ceremony. He was only a witness here.  
Nina began, as she was already holding the child. Cradling him in her right arm, she held her left over his head, palm hovering just over his forehead. She began whispering ancient spells, drawing on the energy of everyone present. When she finished the first round of spells, she moved her hand down to hover over his heart, repeating the spells as she again drew energy into them. Falling silent, she held the child close in both arms, eyes closed. David knew she was trying to make sense of the swirl of energy around them, feeling for a pull from the child in one direction or another. She stood silently for several seconds before she opened her eyes and, smiling down at the baby, drew a simple circle on his forehead with her thumb. David sighed in relief and ran a hand over his eyes, only to find Tanr and Suirr staring at him in silent reproach. The circle was one of the oldest symbols of the lords of the light.  
He couldn't help but feel relieved that his son had at least one claim of light over him, but was soon anxious again as the baby was passed in silence to Tanr. Rigid in his stance and awkward in his movements, the scowling Ancient clearly would rather not have touched the boy. He repeated the spells and hand gestures Nina had used and stood with his eyes closed, reading the child's pull. When he opened his eyes, he puffed a disappointed breath through his nose and jerked his thumb in a circle on the baby's forehead, quickly handing him off to Suirr.

This time it was Suirr who smiled and rocked back on his heels, happy that a lord of the dark had marked the child for the light. He performed the simple ritual over the boy for a third time and spent several long moments reading the child's pull. It took longer for Suirr to open his eyes than it had for the others, and when he did he looked slightly troubled. He moved his hand to draw a symbol on his forehead, but hesitated. Looking deep into the boy's eyes, he finally put down his thumb and drew his symbol – a cross mark, with each of the arms pointing like arrows in opposite directions.

David looked at the others, concerned. He had not seen this symbol before. He saw Nina furrow her brow, considering the mark Suirr had drawn. Tanr, too, seemed to be contemplating this outcome with arms crossed in front of him, running a finger back and forth over his lips. He glanced away from the child, catching David's anxious gaze.

"So," he said quietly, "now there are three." He gave Suirr a hard look before saying, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "What ever shall I do?" He flicked the hood of his robe up onto his head and stepped backward into shadow. He was gone.

*****

**Ms. Cason was born "up North,"** but grew up in West Texas' hub city, surrounded by cotton farms, cattle ranches, and college co-eds. Although she loves her work in the accounting world, she sometimes tries her hand at nature photography and has a decent eye for it. Ms. Cason has written what she calls "bits 'n' pieces" of stories since she was a teenager, but this is her first published work. She hopes to complete at least one novel someday, and often wonders how difficult it would be to write a screenplay.

#  Behind the Door

By CG Coppola

Louise scrubbed the floor.

With each hard brush, tiny pieces of brown shell broke free from the cockroach-sponge, doubling the work. She'd never get it done. Not in time for checks. Maybe if she'd had a real sponge—the kind to actually soak up water—or even some soap, it might be possible. But how could she complain? All the other girls had the same thing, were required to do the same thing. Clean. Clean the ship's interior with nothing more than a bucket of brown water and dead cockroaches the size of infants. It was all day, every day until... Louise didn't know.

She'd been here as long as she could remember. And at nine years old, that felt like a lifetime. She'd often wondered how she ended up on the ship, if her parents were looking for her, or if she'd done something wrong. It was the same thought all the other girls had, except for the older ones, who stopped caring years ago. It didn't matter why they were here. There was no escaping the _Lady of the Lake_ , so why bother thinking about it?

Louise wiped her forehead and wished for a shower. If she cleaned her section thoroughly, Madame would gift one. If not, she'd have to go another week. Maybe even a month. Louise recoiled at the thought. The last month she went without showering made her violently sick, and she swore she'd do everything Madame asked, even clean an impossibly dirty floor with toilet water and one of the monstrous dead bugs the ship was known to house.

"Hurry up..." Ann whispered. "She's coming."

Louise scrubbed harder. Faster. She wouldn't finish in time. The Madame was back early and Louise still had a quarter of the floor left. What was she going to do?

"I hope this level is clean, ladies," Madame's voice traveled through the metal hall. "I'd be disappointed to find it isn't."

"She's going to flip when she sees your section, Louise," Joan, one of the older girls snickered. "No shower for two months!"

"Shush it, Joan!" Ann hissed.

"Make me."

"That better not be talking I hear," Madame's voice drew nearer. "You know talking is not tolerated."

Louise scrubbed faster. Even though her section wasn't done, maybe Madame would be happy with the work she _did_ do. Maybe.

"Ah," she cooed as her footsteps came to a halt.

Louise was afraid to look up. Had the other girls finished their sections? Was she the only one still scrubbing? She dared not look. Sometimes, in the middle of things, Louise drifted away. She never intended to, but found herself pretending to be a mermaid, caught by vicious sailormen that stole her while her parents slumbered. Other times, Louise imagined she was a princess, kidnapped from a kingdom still mourning her absence. And in these daydreams, Louise's hand moved slower, her grip on the cockroach lessening. A hopeful possibility turned into minutes lost and losing time was serious. Dangerous, even.

"Filth."

Madame's one word sent a chill down Louise's spine. Would she be reprimanded? Or worse—selected? She lowered herself to the ground, as was procedure. And then peeked out through the gap under her arm. All sixteen girls waited the same way—kneeling with their foreheads hovering over the floor. All dressed in the same ratted black tights and blue sailor dresses, most opted to pull their hair back in a ponytail or bun. Even Louise. She learned early on that no matter how clean she could get the floor, she didn't want her blonde hair touching the thing.

But the youngest—Francesca—forgot again.

Brown hair fell in waves, dripping into the dirty water and some, right onto the cockroach-sponge. Louise suppressed a wince. She hated touching it with her hand, but the hair seemed even more intimate somehow. How could Francesca forget again?

Madame's red heels walked past Louise and over toward the six year old. Louise wanted to watch—she felt she owed it to Francesca not look away and actually witness the action—but in the end, she shut her eyes and cringed. And only heard the girl crying in protest as Madame dragged her across the floor and behind 'the door.' Every day, Madame would find the dirtiest section and that girl would be the example. To work harder. To work faster. Because when she came back the following day, something wasn't right. Something... changed. You could tell by the sunken eyes, by the new, extra-skittish nature. Something happened behind that door—something evil.

Louise had never been picked. Thank God. Even with her elaborate day dreams, the younger girls moved slower, still fresh to complaining about why they were here and how they got here and how they didn't want to work. Louise had been like that in the beginning too—she thought—but fear cloaked her every move and she knew enough not to complain. And not to get picked. Because she didn't want to see what lay behind the door. If she worked for anything, it was that reason.

"I knew it was going to be Franny," Joan chuckled and got to her feet, wiping brown flecks of shell from her hands. "What a crybaby."

"Give it a break, Joan," Ann huffed. "One of these days it's going to be you."

"Not likely."

"You say that now," she threw her cockroach-sponge in the bucket and stood up. "It's only a matter of time."

"Yeah," Joan laughed. "We'll see. Maybe," she tossed the cleaning tool on the ground and strolled closer to Ann, "you'll forget your sponge and bucket tomorrow. Maybe Madame will reach a whole new level of pissed-off." She crossed her arms as a sinister smile crossed her lips. "That's something I'd like to see."

All the girls gathered around, intrigued by the possible fight. Joan and Ann were known to go at it from time to time, and with Madame distracted with whatever was happening behind 'the door,' it was a perfect time to hash it out again. Ann, who, despite being twelve years old, had no problem standing up to Joan, the sixteen year old bully who liked to taunt and tease all the younger girls, ones like Francesca and Louise. Some even feared her worse than they did Madame, who only showed up for inspections and of course, to drag the selected girl to 'the door' as an example.

Louise often wondered about Joan. Wondered if the dark-haired teen acted the way she did because of how long she'd been on _Lady of the Lake_. Would Joan be different if she lived somewhere else—if she did something else? At sixteen, she'd had more years in the place even though Louise, at nine, felt like she'd been on the ship forever.

A scream emitted from behind 'the door' and all the girls fell silent. It was done. Whatever happened back there, it'd happened to Francesca and a sinking feeling of dread washed over Louise. Francesca would never be the same. And Louise couldn't help but shake.

That night, Ann crept over to Louise's cot and braided her hair. It was the same thing every evening when the girls went to bed—Ann would do checks on each of the younger ones, to calm and sooth them into a nightmare-less sleep, so they'd get enough rest for the following day. Louise waited patiently for her turn, trying not to think about Francesca, who shared the cot next to her. Except Francesca looked different—strange. But maybe she'd always looked like that? With the pale complexion and blue eyes—

Wait, hadn't they been green?

Ann stopped at Louise's cot. She'd learned early on that the nine year old suffered from violent night tremors, and the one thing that could tame them. Something about Ann's fingers in her long, blonde hair helped sooth Louise into a peaceful slumber. And she needed that. Especially tonight.

But the following morning, Louise struggled to get up. Even with Ann's reassuring touch, she'd had a hard time falling asleep. She was sluggish and lethargic, missing the bucket's handle the first few times she'd reached for it. She was last in line to fill the thing with toilet water from the brown-walled bathroom, and to grab one of the cockroach-sponges from the heaping new pile placed just outside the door. Louise yawned and blinked a few times, trying to wake up. But something wasn't right. She'd attributed it to Francesca's odd state. She could have sworn the girl had green eyes. Maybe she was remembering wrong?

This happened a lot to Louise.

She'd think she'd know a girl's trait—like her hair or eye color—and then it'd suddenly be different... or as it always was. Louise could never tell. It made her think she was crazy—and maybe she was—so she stopped trying to notice anything and stayed away from the other girls, keeping mostly to herself. But Louise couldn't shake the Francesca thing. She could have sworn the girl had green eyes. And Francesca —was that always her name? No, her name was Betty. Where'd she get Francesca from? Louise shook her head and pushed the cockroach-sponge up the floor. Usually, she entertained herself with fantasies of alternate lives. But now she was determined to remember Betty—yeah, Betty—as she always was.

"Louise!" Ann whispered as her eyes filled with dread. "What are you doing?"

Louise looked up.

And then stilled.

Her section was a mess. She must not have been paying attention. How long wasn't she paying attention? She'd only had a small fraction cleared, but brown flecks clung to it and Madame would be coming back soon. There was no way she'd make up for the lost time she spent thinking about Betty, about their limited word exchanges, about knowing Betty had always been Betty.

But really—how stupid could Louise be? She peered around at other parts of the floor. Clean. Unlike hers.

"Just hurry!" Ann whispered again, pointing. "Just clean as fast as you can!"

"It's going to be Louise today," Joan chuckled. "I'm calling it."

Ann crawled over and started scrubbing part of Louise's section.

"You can't help her!" Joan cried.

"Shut up!"

"You can't!"

"Is that talking I hear?" Madame's voice drifted through the hall.

Ann scrubbed even harder, trying to get as much done as possible. It'd take another two or three people to get Louise's section looking anything like the other girls', but no one else moved to help. Instead, they sat up and watched the two girls work, sighing with a breath of relief that it wouldn't be them today. They all had another day in hell to look forward to.

Madame's heels clicked down the hall but Ann refused to return to her section. She kept scrubbing, kept dipping her cockroach-sponge in the brown water while Louise sat motionless and watched. She knew. She knew with every fiber of her being that her turn had finally come and fear paralyzed her. There was nothing she could do.

"You're going to get in trouble!" Joan taunted.

Ann looked from her to Louise, who still refused to move. Finally, the girl scurried back to her own section but mouthed the words 'keep cleaning.'

And then Madame appeared.

Everyone dropped to the hunched-over position, as was procedure. Louise's heart pounded harder than it ever had before. She'd be dragged behind 'the door' and no one knew what happened back there. Everything inside told her this would be the day she died. This would be the day she no longer remained herself. Louise's breath hitched as she watched Madame's red heels walk over the floor. They stopped in front of her.

"Filth."

Louise shook, praying she didn't let her bowels go right then. The moment between Madame stopping and what came next seemed to last forever, just like her time on _Lady of the Lake_. And then she felt the tug. Louise shut her eyes as Madame dragged her toward 'the door,' by her hair. She knew it'd be the last thing she ever saw so she peeked once, and it was at Ann, who watched horrorstruck as her young ally disappeared.

Louise wished she could've thanked Ann for being her one true friend on the ship. Just once. It was because of Ann that Louise held onto a bit of hope, a small piece of happiness in an otherwise horrifying world. But she couldn't thank her. She'd never have the chance. And that was almost as bad as where she was headed.

The door shut.

Louise fell into a chair, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might explode. No clue what would happen next, she dared not look at the woman behind the black desk across from her. Darkness overwhelmed the scene, except for a single light that hung high between the two. Louise lowered her head, waiting, anticipating the inevitable evil she knew would follow.

Madame rested her interlocked fingers on the desk. "Hello, Louise."

The sound of Madame's calm voice shook Louise harder than anything else had yet. Her lips trembled, her voice quaking. "Hello, Madame."

"Do you know why you are here?"

"Because," Louise whispered, "I didn't finish cleaning."

"That's why you're in this room. Do you know why you are _here_?"

Louise had asked herself that a thousand times in the beginning, back when she remembered thinking there might have been a before. She'd spend entire days wondering how it was she came about being on _Lady of the Lake_ , but nothing ever changed. And the possible before became fantasies of alternate lives, so she'd stopped. It didn't matter why she was on the ship because she was never getting off.

"I don't know, Madame."

"A deal was struck here several years ago, one I intend to collect on."

A chill ran down Louise's spine. She wanted to ask what Madame was collecting but knew the truth was too terrible, too horrific to process. So she didn't.

"Aren't you the least bit curious to know how you ended up here? Why those faint glimpses of something else, something different, still linger from time to time?"

_Of course_ , Louise wanted to say. But she couldn't muster the words.

"It is because you were chosen. Not by me," Madame indicated to the wall on her left, "but by her."

At this, Louise glanced up and noticed for the first time a wall of framed faces. All girls. All similarly aged. And there must've been... _thousands_ of them covering every inch of the space. But Louise focused in on one right away, one she knew immediately. Instinctively. Auburn hair, bright green eyes and those freckles she wished she'd had for herself. But something else came with the recognition—a new form of terror that washed through Louise as pieces of the something before started gravitating back together.

"You recognize her... don't you?"

Louise did. She knew the girl. She knew her somehow, in some way even though she'd never been on the _Lady of the Lake_ before. Not that she could remember.

"Well you should. She's the one who put you here."

Louise looked back at Madame but darkness shielded her face. Only her threaded hands sat visible on the desk. Louise had a thousand questions, curiosity mixing with the insurmountable dread rolling around in her stomach.

"I don't understand."

"This ship must always hold sixteen girls. That is the deal. No more. No less. And all those faces," she gestured to the wall again, "are of girls that have been released. But in order for you to be, you must find someone to take your place. Then you can go."

"Go?"

"Onto the next stage. Or did you want to spend all eternity here?"

Louise gulped.

"That can be arranged. Why, Joan has spent 151 years onboard _Lady of the Lake_. Ann..." she laughed, "...you don't even want to know."

Dread turned to something more horrific, more terrifying than recognizing the auburn-haired girl. It consumed her until all she felt was the hard rattling of her bones and her heart that felt like a bomb. "I...I still don't understand."

"Then how about a history lesson, hmm? In 1833, a ship departed Britain and left for Quebec. Early into its voyage, it hit an iceberg and sunk, and of its passengers on board, 215 died. Traveling to a new school in the west was a class of sixteen girls and their Madame—the only one who suffered life threatening injuries. Not ready to die, she struck a bargain: her life for the souls of her students. They were to remain here, cleaning up her sins for all eternity, unless, of course... they released themselves in exchange for another soul."

Terror gripped Louise as she put meaning to the words.

"This ship must always hold sixteen girls. That is the deal. No more. No less." Madame sat forward, her blunt red lips visible under the shadowed face. And then her voice sunk low, to a man's baritone she'd never heard. "You're dead, Louise. Hannah killed you so you could take her place here. And if you wish to leave, you must do the same."

But...but how could she be...

And then Louise remembered the night. The night she met Hannah in the attic while her parents prepared dinner downstairs. Louise loved playing in the attic—it was the perfect scene for make-believe. And she was good at it too. She'd even envisioned her own friend—an auburn-haired girl with green eyes and freckles she'd desired for herself. Hannah, the girl wanted to be called. And Hannah wanted to play a particular game.

She called it _no peeking_.

"It's sort of like hide and go seek, but you have to cover your eyes _and_ ears for ten solid seconds. No matter what."

Louise had agreed and placed her hands over her ears. She'd shut her eyes as she was supposed to and started counting. Louise got to three when she felt the first sharp sting. She opened her eyes as Hannah slid the knife in a second time, and then a third. By the fourth, Louise laid on the ground, choking on her own blood. And then—

The ship. The cockroach-sponges. The endless cleaning, everyday, all day. Louise blinked, patting down her blue sailor suit, feeling for the stab wounds. Her heart pounded frantically, her entire body shaking. She'd had a family, parents—a life. She'd had a _before_!

"It's time for a new soul. I want you to go out and bring another back. Do you think you can do that?"

Louise trembled.

"If not, you'll stay here until you decide you can."

And then a terrifying thought struck Louise, one she needed answered immediately, one she'd often contemplated in her deeper moments of thought. "How long have I been here?"

The thin red lips smiled. "Eighty years."

Eighty years?

That meant... that meant...

Louise looked back at the door, the door she'd feared for... for apparently eighty years. And that whole time, it was the key to her departure... if she decided to take it. Should she? Could she? If it meant killing another girl? Louise thought of the others. Did Joan know? Did Ann? She did. Louise knew it immediately. Deep down in her heart, she knew that Ann had known, but decided not to do it. She was too good and pure to be so evil and yet, by doing so, she'd opted to spend eternity in hell. Because that's where she was, Louise realized. Hell.

"So?" Madame smiled. "Are you ready to leave?"

***

Louise waited in the bushes.

The soccer game was almost over which meant the kids would come back any minute. She needed to do it quick. And Amber was almost here.

"What'd you say?" the girl ducked her head past the leafy fauna and smiled brightly at the blonde stranger.

"M-my name is Louise. Want to play a game?"

*****

If you enjoyed this story you might like to read more of CG Coppola's writing. Such as...

Escape from Harrizel

by CG Coppola

Fallon is just like every other Arrival brought to Harrizel—an alien planet restoring the human race after a fatal war left Earth in ruins. But once viewing the all-day work camps and the nightly, orgy-like atmosphere, Fallon suspects her hosts, the Dofinikes, might have a secret agenda of their own.

*****

**I'm a huge fan of Oreos, but not so much oatmeal raisin.** I love the cold, but somehow still find myself in sunny Florida, where I obtained my creative writing degree (go Noles!) Maybe one day I'll migrate north. New York would be nice. Or maybe Amsterdam. For now, I live with my boyfriend in a house I'm pretty sure is haunted. Either that or I need glasses. I'm hopeful it's the latter.

**Website** \- http://Authorcgcoppola.com

#  The Midnight Zone

by Anne Franklin

"She had just put the finishing touches on a small tray of appetizers, when there was a knock on her front door. She was smiling as she rushed to answer it. She looked disappointed when she saw a deliveryman holding his fist up to knock again, but smiled when he handed her a package. She sat on the couch and ripped at the paper around the box.

"She appeared surprised, as she pulled out a pair of binoculars. She said something like 'wow' and went to a nearby window. She put the glasses to her eyes and tried to adjust the focus. There must have been a problem, because she took them down and studied them closely. Whatever she did must have worked, because when she put them back to her eyes and focused them again, two sharp spikes, or something like that, went through her eyes and into her head. She just collapsed to the floor. The last thing I saw was a close-up view of her face with the binoculars still sticking into her eyes, and blood flowing from around them."

"Ava," Liam said, "that's horrible."

"I know. I was only maybe 15 years old, and I have never forgotten that scene. I turned the TV off immediately, and I don't even remember the name of the movie. It was an old one that was filmed in London, I think. Something about a murder in a wax museum."

"And that's why you've never let me put a peep hole in your door?"

"Yep. I would never be able to look through it anyway, and also, I'd always think someone was looking through it at me."

"So, last night you wouldn't have looked out to see who was there?" Liam asked.

"No!"

"Tell me what happened," Liam said.

"It was after eleven, and I thought I heard a knock on the door. I started toward it, but realized only you or Linda would have knocked at that hour, you were out of town, and Linda would have called first. I stopped a couple of feet from the door and waited for another knock. When there wasn't one, I decided maybe I hadn't even heard one at all."

"And that's it?" he smiled.

"No!" Ava said exasperated. "I stood there for several minutes sure there was someone on the other side of that door."

"But there wasn't, was there." He tried to sound more concerned.

"I don't know. I sat on the couch and watched the door until the feeling went away."

"When?" Liam asked.

"When what?"

"When did the feeling go away?" Liam asked, putting his arm around her shoulders.

"It was about a half hour, and I couldn't go near the door all that time. It was just odd and creepy. Liam, seriously, I know there was someone in the hallway. It scared me."

"I've put three dead bolts and a chain lock on that door," he said. "You are perfectly safe."

"But I don't like that feeling. Am I going nuts?"

Ava had moved to the city eight years earlier from a small midwestern town. She had a well paying, but unglamorous, job with a large accounting firm. Liam was one of the first people she had met, and they had been a couple ever since then. He was an airline pilot with his own apartment near the airport. He was gone many days at a time, and he had terrible sleeping habits. So they spent as much time together as their schedules allowed. They never considered changing their eight-year relationship.

"Come on, sweetheart," he said. "Let's go out and have some fun. How about Greek?"

"Perfect," she said and gave his hand on her shoulder a kiss.

It was after two in the morning, when they returned to her apartment, giggling and laughing from too many glasses of Greek wine. Since it was Friday night, or Saturday morning, and she didn't have to go to work, he spent the night. He had a redeye flight that night, so they slept in and went out for a nice brunch. She gave him her usual two-finger wave when he had to leave that afternoon, and he waved two fingers back.

At eleven thirty that night, she was getting out of the shower, when she heard another knock on her door. She was wrapped in a bath towel, as she slowly crossed the room. She stopped within two feet of the door and listened. She was sure there was someone there, but she didn't hear a sound. She put her nightclothes on, as she kept an eye on the door. She poured herself a glass of wine and sat at the dining table. At midnight the feeling disappeared.

She called Liam, knowing he was in the air, and left him a message. He called her back Sunday afternoon, as he was headed back to the airport for another redeye flight.

"I feel terrible that I won't be back for four days," he told her. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Sure," she said, "don't worry."

"I'll call you every day," he told her. "Why don't you call Linda?"

"She'll think I'm losing it," Ava laughed. "I'll be fine."

"Remember," Liam told her, "you'll be perfectly safe, if you don't unlock the dead bolts."

The same knock happened Sunday night, but she was dressed for bed, sitting on the couch, waiting. She went to the two feet line and said, "Hello, who's there?"

Nothing.

At work the next day, the normal routine soothed her. After work she decided to take the staircase to her third floor apartment. She almost tripped over her neighbor, Jerry, when she entered the stairwell. He was busy securing his bike for the night. Jerry was a bicycle courier and kept lean by cycling all day and never taking the elevator. They talked for a few minutes until he took his regular three steps at a time dash to the third floor.

Ava watched him in awe and decided she would try two steps at a time. She twisted her ankle on the fourth step. Jerry heard her cry out and rushed back down. She leaned on him, as they slowly tottered back to the elevator and up to her apartment. Her ankle was already getting puffy, and there were sharp pains when she tried to put weight on it. He settled her on the couch and got her an ice pack and an Advil.

"Stay off of it as much as possible, and take the elevator tomorrow. No more steps for you."

A few minutes later, he returned with an ace bandage, which he used to wrap her ankle. He brought her a glass of wine and some cheese and crackers.

"I'm locking the doorknob lock," he said as he left.

After the glass of wine and the Advil eased the pain, she hopped to the closet to retrieve her umbrella, so she could use it for a cane. She jumped over to the door and locked all of the dead bolts and chain.

Her apartment was a studio, with her bed, couch, and small dining table in the same room. By eleven thirty she had all of her blankets covering her, the air conditioner on full blast, and a folding screen blocking her view of the front door. Still, at eleven thirty, she heard a distinctive knock on the door, and she felt the presence of someone in the hall. She burrowed under the covers with her iPhone and waited until midnight. Then she slept.

The next morning, using the umbrella, she limped down the hallway. She hated using the elevator. Retired people and young professionals occupied the small building. The mostly elderly ladies all looked the same to her, so she could never remember their names. She kept them apart by their physical complaints. "How is your back?" she'd ask Alice Watson. Alice would smile and say, "Fine, dear. Thank you for asking." There was Mrs. Gallbladder, Mrs. Back, Mrs. Headaches, and Mrs. Arthritis. They were gathered in the lobby to see the workers off for the day and were shocked to see she was wounded and hobbling to work. They were a good bunch, and Ava was sure there would be a watch for her that afternoon with offers of soup and any other assistance she may need.

"So sweet," she thought as she hobbled to the taxicab, which they had called for her.

There were three of them waiting when she limped into the apartment building that afternoon. Linda, the second person she had met when arriving in the city, jumped on the elevator just before the doors closed.

"What's up?" she asked, looking at the bandaged ankle.

Ava explained, as they all helped her into her apartment and onto her couch. Linda was the last to leave and asked just before closing the front door, "What were you doing out so late Sunday night? I thought Liam was out of town."

"I wasn't out Sunday," Ava said in surprise.

"I saw you standing at your door as I got off the elevator," Linda said. "I waved, and you waved back."

"Couldn't have been me. I never left the apartment Sunday."

"You had your new yellow dress on," Linda said.

"Oh! That was Friday night. Liam and I went out."

"But I didn't," Linda smiled.

"What time was it?" Ava asked.

"A little before midnight," Linda said.

Ava went weak and put her hand to her mouth.

"Are you okay?" Linda asked in concern. "I could come back and sleep on the couch."

"No, I'll be okay," Ava said, and tried to recover. "Don't have to jump too far in this apartment."

"You sure?" Linda asked.

"I'm fine."

But she wasn't fine and this whole door thing was beginning to get to her. She thought she should have told Linda, but she was also afraid that she was having some sort of emotional problem and she didn't want to talk about it to anyone except Liam.

"I wish he were here. I need him."

She dozed off for a couple of hours and woke just before eleven. Even with the air as cold as she could get it, she was sweating. She felt shaky and realized she hadn't eaten the sandwiches the ladies had made for her. She sat at the table with a glass of tea and took a bite of a ham and cheese, but she couldn't swallow it, and had to spit it into a napkin.

"What's wrong with me?"

She lay down on her bed, with her clothes still on, and threw the blankets over herself. She lay there waiting.

"It seems like all I do every night is wait."

At eleven thirty the knock came, and the feeling gripped her. She waited until almost midnight before she threw off the covers, got her umbrella, and limped to the door. She stopped at the two feet mark, looked at the three dead bolts, and stepped forward. She released the first bolt, the second, and then paused. She verified the chain lock was secure, and unlatched the third bolt. She turned the knob and pulled the door open an inch, then pushed it closed, undid the chain, and opened the door.

Standing in the hall was . . . 'her'. She held her hand out to Ava, and Ava took it and stepped into the hallway.

Early the next morning, Linda received a call from Liam. "Will you go down and check on her?" he asked. "I've been calling all night. I didn't want to wake you, but I'm worried."

Linda took her cell phone with her and walked down the hall. "Her door is wide open, Liam."

"You don't see her?" he asked.

"No. Her umbrella is in the doorway," Linda said. "Where are you?"

"Chicago. Call the police."

Four weeks later, there were flowers in front of Ava's door, and the occupants of the building had lost hope. Liam finally went back to work, but his heart would never be the same.

Six weeks later, he was pulling his roller bag along the street nearest his apartment, when he saw Ava leaning against the wall of a coffee shop. He froze in his steps, his heart did a triple beat. He dropped his bag, and ran toward the girl.

"Ava!" he cried out, as he threw his arms around her.

The girl was shocked and pushed him away in fear.

An older girl came out of the coffee shop and said, "What's going on here? Are you okay, Janie?"

"Janie?" He asked the older girl, and then, "Ava?" he asked, looking at the young girl.

"He thinks I'm someone named Ava," the girl said.

"She is my cousin, Janie, sir," the older girl said. "She is new to the city and doesn't know anyone named Ava. I'm afraid you have scared her."

He could see the girl was upset, so he tried to make amends. He introduced himself and said, "I'm so sorry. You look just like a friend of mine who has been gone for several weeks. I thought she was back."

"No problem," the girl said.

"Where are you from?" Liam asked her.

"Indiana," Janie said. "This is my first trip away from home. I've only been here a bit over a month."

"She's going to stay," the cousin said. "Aren't you?"

"We'll see," Janie smiled.

"I've been trying to get her here for years, but she kept putting me off saying she had things she had to accomplish before she could come."

"Well," Liam said. "I hope I haven't messed things up for you."

"Oh no," Janie said. "I'm sure things are going to be fine."

"Come on, Janie, we're going to be late," the cousin said. "We live in the neighborhood, maybe we'll run into you again."

As they walked away, Janie turned, smiled, and gave him a two-finger wave. He watched her limp away with an ace bandage wrapped around her right ankle, and waved two fingers back.

*****

If you enjoyed this story you might like to read more of Anne's writing. Such as...

Winter Murderland

by Anne Franklin

_Meg and Janet Vacation Murder Mysteries_ , Book 1

Meg and Janet start their winter vacation in the beautiful town of Trier, Germany. They book into a curiously empty hotel. A wild blizzard isolates them in a hospital inhabited by a cloister of robed monks. When a murder is committed and they are victims of brutal attacks, the two travelers discover a puzzling tale of fear and greed.

.

*****

**My name is Anne Franklin.** I was born in Little Rock, Arkansas, but I was raised in Miami and the Space Coast of Florida. I live with my husband in Cape Canaveral, Florida.

I am visually impaired, as is my protagonist in my books. Every night I read audio books until long after my husband has turned off the lights and fallen to sleep. My other passions are traveling and writing.

I started writing my first book, 'A Winter Murderland' several times. I started, and I stopped, for years. When I finally decided to be serious about writing, I had to rewrite much of that book. There were no more German Marks, and no one went to currency exchange shops to get foreign money. How excited I was when I found my first ATM in Austria.

I've decided to use my three passions, reading, writing, and traveling, for something constructive. So, I plot suspenseful mysteries, which take place while my protagonist is traveling.

I am currently working on my third book, where Meg and Janet will be vacationing in Ireland. The title is 'Evil Irish Lies'. It will be published in the Fall of 2015.

**Website:** <http://annefranklin.wix.com/anne-books-page>

#  Legends and Lies

By Jason Gilbert

My legs hurt from running, but I didn't have a choice. I couldn't stop. Not even to catch my breath and soothe the burning in my lungs. I could hear the thunder of horse's hooves on the ground ahead of me and smell the reek of fire and blood that he seemed to wear like cologne. I'd never come so close to catching him.

Until now. My life's work would come to an end tonight.

"Cassie!"

Lisa's screams kept me going. I had to stop him before he got to her. I felt nothing but regret for using her, but I'd had no choice. He was sure to come for her, and I'd planned to be ready for him. I'd never planned to grow attached to her. She'd become my confidant, my truest friend. We'd met at a bar one night while I was off duty.

We were cousins.

And she didn't even know who I really was. I knew who she was, though. And I'd had the gut feeling that the horseman would pay her special attention this Halloween.

The horse hooves slowed and ceased, the sound trailing off to the right. I slowed my pace, trying to catch my breath as much as I could without stopping. The public park was too big and too easy to lose him in. I heard rustling in the trees to my left and stopped, pulling out my 9mm Berretta and pointing it at the dark woods.

Lisa emerged. I lowered and grabbed her as she ran to me.

"Jesus, Cassie," she breathed, her tear-streaked face dirty and her eyes wide with terror. Her large blonde curls were a mess from being tangled in the brush. "He's coming! We have to go!"

"Backup will be here soon," I said, trying to keep the panic out of my voice, keeping my tone a forced calm and neutral. Police training at its finest. I couldn't let her know that I was scared as hell. He was after _her_ , but he'd have no problem taking my head if I got in his way. "We need to get cover until they get here. Where did you see him go?"

"I don't know," Lisa said. "I never looked back. I just couldn't hear him anymore."

"Shit," I muttered. I pushed my hair out of my eyes and tied it back into a ponytail. I hadn't had the chance before the horseman jumped us. I was sweating under my uniform. I stripped while Lisa stayed close by. I took off my bulletproof vest and dropped it to the ground, then put my holster back on over my white undershirt. The vest would've stopped a round, no problem. It didn't do anything to protect my neck.

I looked up. The clouds had moved to cover the moon. Ah, that's right. I felt stupid for forgetting. He needed the full moon on Halloween to appear. He was powerless until the clouds moved. We had time to hide. Once the clouds moved, he could reappear anywhere. It was better have my back against a wall when it happened. My radio crackled, and I clicked it off. He was dormant, but not deaf. My phone vibrated. Shit, the captain never gave up. I pressed the green button on the touch display and answered it.

"Crane," he barked. "Why the hell did you turn off your radio?"

"Had to keep my cover, sir," I said. "What's the ETA on my backup?"

"Soon," he said. "Ten, fifteen tops."

"Yes sir," I said, my heart dropping.

"Be careful, and stay hidden, Crane," the captain said. The line went dead, the phone beeping to tell me that the call had ended. I cursed under my breath.

"What?" Lisa asked.

"Backup might not be here in time," I said. "We might be on our own if he comes back."

"What the hell is he?"

I looked up at the sky. The clouds were moving, but they were slow. I had about five, maybe ten minutes. It would be close if my backup came in time. But, I would lose my chance at taking down the thing my family had hunted for generations.

"C'mon, let's get cover," I said. I led Lisa to the path under the bridge that connected the two sides of the park. A large creek ran underneath with a sidewalk on either side. We put our backs to the walls and listened, then I started to speak when I figured the coast was clear.

"The horseman is after you because of your family," I said. "Years ago, my great-great-great grandfather, Ichabod Crane, fell in love with a girl named Katrina Van Tassel. Her ex-lover, Brom, went into a jealous rage and chased off Ichabod with the Headless Horseman routine."

"He killed him," Lisa said. "I know the story."

"No, you don't," I said. "No one does. Ichabod wasn't gangly and awkward. He was beautiful and brilliant. Katrina loved him instantly. Ichabod snuck back into Sleepy Hollow the next night after Brom chased him off, and he and Katrina fled together. Brom went into a rage and paid a witch to send the real Headless Horseman after Ichabod. The witch did, but she didn't tell Brom that he would be the first victim to complete the curse. She cursed the entire Van Tassel bloodline. Ichabod swore to protect them, and we've been hunting the horseman ever since."

The moonlight began to slowly come back. The clouds were moving. Time was running out.

"I knew he'd come for you tonight," I said. "You're the last Van Tassel."

"You used me?" Lisa said, her tone sharp and hurt.

"I'm sorry," I said. "But I'm not going to let you die."

The sound of hooves on dirt broke the silence. I motioned for her to be quiet, pulled my gun from the holster. The horseman was on the other side of the bridge from us. He wouldn't cross water. I'd tried to trick him into doing it before, but he knew. He could sense when there was water nearby.

"We need to move," I said. "He can't get to us if we stay on this side of the creek."

"Then why don't we just stay here?" Lisa asked. "Let the rest of the cops deal with him."

A hand axe slammed into the ground next to us. We jumped back, and I ducked as an arrow ricocheted off of the brick wall.

"That's why," I said. "Move!"

We ran to the other side of the bridge, but a few more arrows hit the ground in front of us, stopping us. He had us trapped. I was terrified of being trapped. I had to have a way out. Always. My skin went cold and sweaty, my heart raced. We couldn't run. Damn it. I fought the knot in my throat, felt my knees weaken. I breathed deep, letting the air out of my lungs and imaging my fear going with it like my therapist had taught me. I cleared my mind, forcing blackness and nothing to drive away the rollercoaster of thoughts racing through my head.

"He won't let us leave!" Lisa said in a panic.

"I have an idea," I said, keeping my voice calm. "Stay down and out of sight."

"What are you doing?" Lisa cried, but I pushed her gently down into the shadows and stepped back.

"He won't hurt me," I said.

I hoped.

I put my gun back in the holster and moved to the edge of the underpass. I put my hands out to show him that I was unarmed. It was habit from training. I felt stupid for doing it with a dead guy, but what I was doing was stupid all together.

I stepped out into the night, keeping my body poised to dart back under the bridge if I had to. I kept my arms up towards him, my hands open to show him that I had no weapons. Just looking at him made my blood go cold and my skin crawl.

He was dressed in black leather armor with a cloak that draped from his shoulders down over the buttocks of his gigantic black horse. Daredevil snorted at me, smoke coming from his nostrils, his eyes glowing red from the hellfire that burned inside him. Daredevil was at least twenty hands or more. He was a Shire breed. I focused on the space where the horseman's head should've been, telling myself that at least trying to keep eye contact would mean something to the death curse that stood on the top of the opposite bank with an arrow drawn back in his large black hand-bow. I could hear the wood creak from the strain. The test on the ornate-looking bow had to be insane. I'd remembered my father telling me once that no mortal could pull the cord back.

That was before the horseman took his head while he was protecting Lisa's grandfather.

"I know what you want," I called up to him. "I know who you are."

The horseman pulled back further on the bowstring. The force would send the arrow through me and cauterize the wound instantly. I'd be dead before my knees even buckled. I'd seen it before when he'd killed one of my friends in college. Another Van Tassel. He didn't need them alive to take their heads.

I swallowed back the lump in my throat. I'd spoken to him, and he'd reacted. It wasn't much, but it was something. Daredevil could cross the water, but not the horseman. The horse wasn't cursed like he was. Daredevil only did what his master had trained him to do in life. But they were bound in death. I needed him off the horse so I could coax Daredevil into crossing the water. It was an educated guess that the horseman would follow, but it wasn't proven. If it worked, I would be free. If it didn't, I would be dead and so would Lisa.

The horseman lowered his bow and arrow and pointed at the opening under the bridge. He wanted me to get Lisa out for him.

"No," I said. "You can't have her. This is over. It's time for you to go back to Hell."

He tensed and raised the bow and arrow at me, then lowered it again. He was thinking, sorting it all out. Even if he killed me, he would still have to cross to get Lisa.

He leaned forward in the saddle as if eyeing me.

"You want her, you go through me," I said.

Mistake.

The horseman reared back and slung an axe at me. I jumped away as it sailed by and imbedded itself in the brick wall behind me. The axe glowed red with heat, the brick smoldering around it. I acted on instinct. My hand reached around and yanked the gun from the holster. I had three shots fired at him before I could blink. They slammed into him, knocking him backwards with each impact, but he stayed on Daredevil. I took aim and fired at the horse, but the horseman had an arrow in the air screaming towards me, and I sent the shot wide right as I dove to the left to avoid getting the arrow in my forehead. I was back under the bridge, my breathing quick.

Lisa was gone.

"Shit."

The horseman heard me. He turned and rode down the bank a ways, turning his body left and right as if looking around for where she might've gone. I'd given away her escape. I ignored him for a moment, trying to find Lisa before he did. Daredevil stamped at the ground and grunted, and the horseman shook the horse's reigns to calm him.

A shadow passed in the moonlight. There was a loud thud, and my legs stopped working. I was on my back looking up into the sky. Lisa stood over me, a large branch in her hand like a club.

"You're not the only one who's been hunting him," she said. "You thought you'd use me as bait. I used you, instead. He wouldn't be able to resist us together. I'm sorry, but it's the only way to keep you safe."

I was afraid it would happen. Lisa was Katrina's reincarnation. It was rare for the old spirit to come forward, but it was always possible in extreme circumstances.

"You know you can't win this," I said, my voice strained, the effort making my head throb. I reached up and touched the spot where she'd whacked me and pulled my hand back. My fingers were covered in blood.

I saw the horseman out of the corner of my eye. He stood over us, his bow aimed at Lisa. She moved back under the bridge where he couldn't get to her.

It was a damn Cat and Mouse game, but the mice had turned on each other.

He wouldn't kill me, not unless I was in his way.

"I know who you are, Ichabod Crane!" Lisa called out from under the bridge. "I know what Brom did to you!"

Ichabod? Had I heard her right? No. It wasn't possible. The Headless Horseman couldn't have been Ichabod Crane. How?

" _There had to be a sacrifice,"_ my Grandfather said to me, once. _"The one who summons him must create him in exchange for his own life."_

Brom, that bastard. He made my great-great-great grandfather the curse. That was the point of the scare that night. He knocked out my ancestor, dragged him to a witch, and made him into a monster.

I rolled onto my side and worked to get my legs underneath me. My limbs were all weak. God _damn,_ she'd smacked the shit out of me. I managed to get to my feet and moved towards the underpass. I had to stop her. I'd been afraid that she'd do something like this, but I'd hoped against it.

Then again, I should've known better. I knew who she really was. All the more reason to keep her away from him. At least it had been. My mind was still reeling from what she'd said.

The Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow was my great-great-great grandfather.

I stopped and slumped against the wall, my head swimming. I was done. A concussion. Had to be. I watched Lisa move to the stairs and climb them. She stood at the end of the bridge and faced the horseman as he met her on the opposite side. He drew his sword and reared back to throw it at her.

"Stop, Ichabod!" she shouted. "You didn't kill me back then, and you won't kill me now!"

He stalled, lowering the blade. Daredevil snorted, his eyes glowing red at her.

"All these years," Lisa said. "And now my poor great, great, great granddaughter has to share two spirits until we can be freed. All because of a choice I made."

The horseman shifted in his seat.

Lisa wasn't Lisa. Katrina had taken over.

The horseman dismounted and took a step towards the bridge.

"Brom was a bastard," Lisa said. "I knew that. It was a lack of options until I met you. So handsome and kind. And now you're a demon."

The horseman stepped forward, putting his foot on the bridge. It instantly began to smoke, and he stepped back.

"Every Halloween we live in torment," Lisa said. "When will it stop, Ichabod?"

"Lisa, move back!" I said. "Stay away from him!"

She ignored me.

"It has to end," she said. "Ichabod, stop this."

The horseman paced back and forth across the far end of the bridge, breathing deeply, his body angled as if he was keeping his gaze on her. He was menacing, angry and evil. Whatever man Ichabod Crane had once been had warped. I wished for a moment that Brom was in front of me, close enough to put my hands on, the bastard.

Daredevil walked over the bridge to Lisa and snorted, putting his nose forward to smell her. She held out her hand, let him smell her, then she gently rubbed his nose and caressed his jowl. He whipped his tail back and forth, his ears forward.

"Gunpowder," she said as she petted Daredevil. "What did that witch do to you, poor animal?"

I snuck around to the horseman's side of the bridge, quietly going over a tree that had fallen across the creek. He was on his own. I could shove him onto the bridge and kill him off for good. I made my legs work, creeping slowly up the stairs, keeping my footfalls silent as I made my way towards him. I crouched down behind him in the brush. Christ, he was huge. If he'd had a head, I'd have given him six-foot-three or four, easy. It explained why he rode such a massive horse. Gunpowder had been better suited for Ichabod Crane, and had been loyal to him. The curse had changed Gunpowder as well. But he remembered Katrina.

Ichabod seemed to be having some trouble.

I exhaled, closed my eyes and counted to three. I sprung from the bushes and charged at the horseman. He spun and shoulder-checked me as I collided with him. The force knocked me backwards onto the ground. I couldn't move my arm, and my shoulder and chest hurt so much I almost blacked out. He'd broken my collar bone. Shit.

He stormed toward me, his sword raised. Katrina called out to him, but he ignored her. I was dead.

"Granddad," I said. "Please, Granddad."

He stopped, towering over me, his sword in the air ready to take my head. He jerked, rearing his sword back for a strike, then stopped himself. He lowered the blade and knelt down, coming closer in. His head was missing, but I could feel his eyes looking into mine as he came closer and closer. I could feel the tremors in the ground as Daredevil approached us. I was drifting. The pain was too much. My neck hurt. Oh God, had he broken my neck, too?

Daredevil appeared behind the horseman and grabbed his collar in his teeth. The horseman flailed and kicked as Daredevil dragged him back towards the bridge. The horse grunted at the fighting but never let up. The horseman lost his grip on the sword. I wanted to grab it and go after him, but my neck and shoulder were done. I couldn't move. I cried out in pain as I turned my head and followed the struggling pair. Daredevil reared up a little to avoid the horseman swatting at him as the horse dragged him towards the bridge. Smoke began to billow out from the horseman's leather armor as Daredevil crossed over the bridge. The horse let go once they were at the top and moved back towards Lisa.

The Headless Horseman stood and tried to move, but his feet were anchored. He writhed, his hands curled and clawed as a scream sounded out from him. A head began to materialize and was whole within seconds. Ichabod Crane's face was beautiful, his features dark with a thin beard and long dark hair that came down between his shoulder blades. His expression was twisted in agony as he looked back and forth between Lisa and me.

Lisa collapsed as Katrina stepped out of her body and onto the bridge. She looked exactly like Lisa, her hair long with large curls that framed her face. Her gown was old and white, the bustle giving her the classic bell-look that had been the style back then. She watched as Ichabod fell to his knees, his skin turning red as he began to burn from the inside. She went to him, put her arms around him and held him close as he went limp.

"Let go," she whispered to him. "Let go."

Ichabod Crane jerked and lay still. I watched, tears burning in my eyes, as he died in her arms. I could hear sirens in the distance. My backup was almost in. Too late.

Daredevil stood over Ichabod and Katrina, his black coat shimmering in the moonlight as it faded back to the dull gray coat it had once been. Gunpowder put his head down and pressed his nose against Ichabod's chest.

I wouldn't be able to hold out. I felt myself begin to slip into unconsciousness as the three of them faded away in the moonlight. I heard voices calling out to me. Someone called for a couple of medics. Lisa would be okay. People surrounded me, put me in a neck brace and slid a stretcher underneath me. I lay back and I was lifted onto a gurney. I felt small sticks in my arms where they were setting me up on an IV drip. I heard voices shouting back and forth, and the captain appeared in front of me.

"What the hell we miss, Crane?" he asked.

My voice weak as the drugs began to kick in.

"No more Halloween shifts."

*****

If you enjoyed this story you might like to read more of Jason's writing. Such as...

The Rifle Chronicles

by Jason Gilbert

Jack "The Rifle" McMurtry is a whiskey-drinking witch hunter known for his custom firearms and killer headshot. When he and Chester, Rifle's horse, wander into a small town on their way north from Texas, the last thing they expect is to get hired on for a witch hunt. Then again, Rifle's always ready to shoot the hell out of anything that flies and cackles as long as he gets his whiskey. And one for Chester, too.

*****

**Jason is a reviewer of all things B-Movie and under.** He runs a blog on Wordpress called Fail-Flix, and also has a book published called "Bad Movie Beware!", which is a compilation of over 100 reviews off the site. Jason also writes a Weird Western series called "The Rifle Chronicles." Both publications can be found as ebooks, while Jason can usually be found in front of his computer writing or playing video games when his brain just can't do it anymore for the night! He loves horror, cooking, and brainstorming new ways to drive his family crazy!

**Website:** www.fail-flix.com

#  The Return of the Crusader

By Barbara Tarn

LINCOLNSHIRE, ALL SAINTS' EVE, AD 1150

Kaylyn sat in the double-seat window recessed in the thickness of the living hall wall of the manor, squinting at her embroidery work. The day had been gray and now that the sun was setting it was becoming increasingly difficult to see.

She sighed and put down the fabric and needle. Time to set up the evening meal in the big room with its beamed ceiling and round arched windows. The corbelled fireplace was lit and the fire glowed brighter than the pearly light through the windows.

Servants came in with torches and lamps, setting up the table for the lady. From outside came the mournful sounds of the Criers, who rang their bells and called for all good Christians to remember the poor souls.

Kaylyn didn't need their reminder. Her husband had left to free the Holy Land a couple of years before and hadn't come back, surely fallen before the walls of Damascus during the failed expedition of the king of France and the emperor of Germany.

Why Baldwin had decided to take the cross and join them in Palestine was beyond her. He had probably had enough of the feuds between King Stephen and Empress Mathilda, and had left soon after signing a chart with his brother Gilbert, whom King Stephen had made Earl of Lincoln to contrast the power of William de Roumare, also appointed by the king a few years earlier.

Politics escaped Kaylyn's comprehension. Baldwin loved her, but she felt he'd run away from his country and his responsibilities when he'd answered the call instigated by Pope Eugene III in a bid to defeat the Muslims who were threatening to retake control of the Holy Land.

This was the second All Saints' Eve she spent without him, thinking of him in the manor he'd left her. As the sun went down and she ate with the house servants, she mused once more on what she could do.

Maybe her father, Geoffrey Fitz Payn, could marry her off again. But she didn't really want to be like her sister-in-law, Alice de Gand, who had married firstly Ilbert de Lacy and then Roger de Mowbray. Maybe she should join one of the new monasteries being built in England.

She still hoped to see Baldwin return from the Holy Land. Maybe some miracle would bring him back.

She bid the servants good night and retired to the upper floor and her private chamber. The bedroom had been partitioned from the antechamber with a wooden panel that kept the inner room warmer. The small windows had two-light round-arched openings that didn't allow in much light. Or the winter cold.

Kaylyn put her lamp on the bed table and took off the veil of the married woman, held by a copper circlet. She took off the close-fitting gown with wide sleeves and remained in her milk-colored chemise.

She climbed on the bed and started to undo her long plaits, putting the ribbons she'd entwined with her brown hair on the bed table and brushing the long waves with her fingers. Her hair fell like a cloak over her back and shoulders, and she sighed, ready to go to bed.

She slipped under the covers and took her small book of hours. The little church outside the manor rang its bell one last time for the souls in purgatory. At the thought of Baldwin, Kaylyn felt that pain in her chest again.

He was her hero. He hadn't fallen, not for her. He was always the smiling, sweet knight who had married her and loved her tenderly before leaving for his duty. If only he'd managed to free the Holy Land and come back to her...

She put down the book of hours, blew out the lamp and laid down. The wind was strong that night, and she could sense a thunderstorm coming. She dozed off, swallowed in the emptiness of her big bed.

***

She was startled awake by something. Thunder? The heavy rain falling on the roof overhead? She thought she heard her name called.

Her heart jumped into her throat when she heard it again.

"Kaylyn..."

Baldwin's pale face emerged from the darkness like the moon. He looked haunted, his dark hair disheveled, his white neck ending in the dark outer tunic that made him look like only a floating head. Or a ghost.

Kaylyn gasped, trying to get away from the vision. Baldwin stopped at the edge of the bed, his clean-shaven face pained.

"Kaylyn, don't be afraid. It's me, Baldwin."

"B-but... you're dead! You've come back from the grave on All Saints' Eve... for what?"

"I miss you." Baldwin smiled ruefully. "I couldn't let you think I was dead. I mean... I am dead, but..." His eyes darted around as if he were looking for counsel.

Kaylyn gulped down her fear.

The ghost climbed on the bed, and he had a body – she could hear the bed creak under his weight, much like when he was alive. His white hand came forward, wishing to touch her.

Kaylyn stiffened but didn't move. Baldwin's fingers were so cold... She shivered.

Baldwin pulled back so fast she almost didn't realize he was gone. As he vanished in the darkness, he said, "I'll be back."

Kaylyn lay down again, trying to calm her breathing and her heart. What was going on?

"Might be the magic of Samhain," a voice from the darkness said.

She sat up, fearful. She heard a mouse squeak in pain and a cat meow a challenge. The animals seemed upset by the rain more than usual.

"Who is it?" she demanded.

She fumbled with the lamp and gave some light to the bedroom.

By the two-light windows stood a tall man with long blond hair and a pale face. He wore a simple long tunic with long sleeves and no sword. He leaned on the stone wall with his arms crossed over his chest. His smile showed off long canines, almost like fangs.

"Who... who are you?" Kaylyn's voice shook. Was it a sorcerer, who had conjured Baldwin's ghost?

She made the sign of the cross, and the man scoffed.

"Your god has no power over me," he said. "But this night is also special for me – the end of the harvest, the start of the long cold winter... Samhain is older than your All Saints' Eve. Where are the bonfires, though? You Christians are boring."

"Bran..." It was Baldwin's shaky voice. "Please spare us your pagan beliefs."

"You can thank my pagan beliefs that you're here today," the blond man replied with a shrug.

Kaylyn finally saw her husband. He was crouched in another corner of the room, his lips still red with blood. Two mice and a cat lay dead at his feet.

Meeting her eyes, Baldwin quickly cleaned his mouth with his hand and slowly rose. Kaylyn couldn't look away as she took him all in.

He's strong, tall and beautiful. I love everything about him... his hair, face, neck, shoulders... but he's so pale and...

Baldwin came forward. Again he sat on the edge of the bed and lifted his hand. He touched her cheek and this time he was warm, almost as if he were still alive. Kaylyn relaxed slightly under his touch, but she was still confused.

He slowly smiled – his dazzling, sweet smile. But the effect was ruined by the fangs. His canines had grown.

He seemed to read her mind, since his smile vanished immediately and his hand fell in his lap.

"I'm sorry, Kaylyn," he said, lowering his eyes. "I'm afraid I'm not the man you married anymore."

"What are you?" she asked, anguished. She couldn't figure out if he was dead or alive or if he'd turned into a demon or an angel or...

He looked at her again.

"I am undead. I am immortal. I'm probably unworthy of God's love – or yours. But I had to see you again."

She threw herself at him, exploring, touching, trying to figure out what had changed. His respectfulness, his manners, his ease seemed the same. His face looked the same, except for the fangs. The way he held her felt the same.

But he smelled different. She couldn't bring herself to kiss him, as if she could still see the blood on his lips. She glanced at the dead cat in the corner.

"Did you just kill it?" she asked, frowning in worry.

"Yes, I drank its blood, and the mice's, so my skin would be warmer for you to touch. That's how I feed, now, beloved. I drink blood. I live at night. I am invulnerable on battlefields."

"Not unless you drink your enemies' blood and not completely," the blond man said, looking out of the window. Lightning flashed on the pale, eerie face. His long hair looked almost white. "You're immortal and tougher to kill, which doesn't mean you _can't_ be killed."

"But... how did it happen?" Kaylyn asked, touching Baldwin's cheek and chest. He seemed whole. The cold she'd felt at his first appearance was gone.

"I was mortally wounded at the siege of Damascus," he answered. "I'd be dead if Bran hadn't given me his blood. And the dark gift."

"What is this dark gift? Is Bran Satan in disguise?"

"I don't know, Kaylyn," Baldwin said, shaking his head. "He claims to be an ancient druid..."

"I am a druid of the Celts," Bran said with a snort. "Ptolemy mentioned my people as the Demetae, who were west of the Silures. I was born in the fort built on Myrddin's Hill, and was mentored by Myrddin himself. The man you now call Merlin."

"The issue of a demon and a woman?" Kaylyn couldn't believe her ears. "Geoffrey of Monmouth mentions him in his history of Britain..."

"I don't know about this Geoffrey. I've been away from this isle for a long time," Bran answered. "Myrddin was the most powerful druid, a great sorcerer, a magician. He had the power of illusion, shape shifting, healing. He knew all the rituals, spells and incantations. I learned everything from him. And then more. I outlived him by centuries – and he's not the one who gave me the secrets of my dark gifts."

"How old are you?"

"I was born in the times of Jewish prophets Ezekiel, Daniel and Jeremiah. At the time of the birth of the Persian Empire. More or less at the same time as Pythagoras of Samos..."

That was one thousand and seven hundred years! Kaylyn stared wide-eyed at Baldwin who nodded, serious.

"So it's true?" she whispered, incredulous.

"Yes." Baldwin squeezed her hand. "He was in Damascus when we attacked."

"I came from Baghdad, which I had seen under Alexander the Great and then some four centuries later under Harun al-Rashid. I wanted to see what was left of those great cities after all the battles between Mohammedans and Christians."

"He has traveled a lot," Baldwin said. "He has shown me much in the past two years... if only on the way back to England. You can't imagine what it's like beyond the Mediterranean Sea..."

"I can't imagine what's beyond England's shores," Kaylyn muttered, averting her eyes. She had never traveled. She had envied Baldwin who had gone on a pilgrimage with the king of France. "I heard King Louis brought his bride with him to the Holy Land... why didn't you take me?"

"It was far too dangerous! I didn't want you to risk your life! Now I'm back, and if you want, we can be together forever. But it's going to be a strange life, not exactly what we had in mind when we exchanged our vows..."

Baldwin looked sad and hopeful at the same time. She stared warily at him.

"What kind of spell hit you, Baldwin?"

"I was dying. Bran gave me life eternal. He can give it to you too, if you want," he answered.

"But I'm not dying."

"Feed him your blood, and you'll be on the verge of death," Bran said from his corner. He sounded scornful.

She glared at him while Baldwin sighed.

"Bran, please... I don't want to feed on her!"

"Drink her ambrosia, then."

"Bran!" Baldwin snapped. "I'm not drinking her blood, menstrual or not!"

Kaylyn blushed. How did they know she had her monthlies? Had they... smelled it? She was lucky she didn't have cramps, but sometimes, as soon as she moved, she felt a flood between her legs. Even right now, even if she was sitting still in bed. Were they causing blood loss with their presence?

"If she loves you, she'll offer herself," Bran retorted. "You don't need to drain her completely... And I can help you take her to the brink of death, before giving her the dark gift."

Kaylyn's eyes went from one man to the other, incredulous. She couldn't believe what they were saying. They would drink her blood? And then what?

"And then he'll make you drink his blood and you'll be like me," Baldwin told her, reading her mind again. "We could be together forever. If that's what you want. But if you'd rather not, I'll understand. I came back because I needed to see you again. But if you do not wish to be with me as I am now, I will leave."

"We can come back tomorrow night, if you wish," Bran added with a smirk. "Don't force her to decide right now, Baldwin. You didn't have time to think, but she does. Let her make an informed decision."

Kaylyn pulled away from Baldwin and retreated to the other side of the bed.

"Please go now," she pleaded. "Come back tomorrow. I can't take anymore of this right now."

Baldwin nodded and blew out the lamp. When her eyes adjusted to darkness, Kaylyn couldn't see either man.

She lay down again, staring at the ceiling where rain kept thundering, until sleep won her.

***

"My lady Katheryne!"

Kaylyn emerged from sleep and drowsily stared at the worried face of her maid.

"It is very late... Are you all right?" the maid insisted, worried.

Alys was a few years older and had followed her from her father's castle into the new household. Kaylyn trusted her more than anyone else in the manor, even though Alys still stubbornly used her full name and title.

She rose, a little confused, and noticed the light coming in from the windows was indeed of a late hour. She had overslept. Then she remembered the night visit and looked in the corner where Baldwin had left the dead animals. It was empty and clean of any trace of blood.

"Did you clean up the room?" she asked Alys as she got out of bed and Alys helped her braid her hair for the day.

"No, my lady. When I didn't see you come downstairs, I came to see if you were sick."

Kaylyn sighed. "I had a long night, Alys... A ghost visited me."

"A ghost?" Alys finished the first plait and started on the second, eyes wide in wonder. "On All Saints' Eve?"

"Baldwin," Kaylyn continued. "He said he didn't die in the Holy Land..."

Alys shook her head. "If he didn't die, why didn't he come back?" she asked.

"He has come back..." Kaylyn pondered. The visit seemed so unreal now that the gray light of day flooded the room... Baldwin couldn't be back – alive or undead or whatever he was. There were no corpses in the room. She must have dreamed everything, including the druid. "I think I had a lot of bad dreams," she concluded with a sigh.

"We shall go pray for the soul of Lord Baldwin," Alys said, helping her into her gown. "The priest is ready for mass. All the poor souls will be remembered today."

Kaylyn grabbed her circlet and her veil and put them on while going down the stone staircase. She grabbed a piece of bread from the kitchen and headed directly for the old church of the hamlet outside the manor.

Baldwin de Gand's property was just a manor house with a batch of scattered houses around it. There was a Romano-British burial ground nearby, and the church had Saxon windows, a Saxon tower, but Norman arcades. A stream ran through the main street, and the forest loomed around the buildings.

The villagers were already heading for the church, its bell calling all faithful for All Saints Day mass. Kaylyn knelt on the stone floor and prayed for Baldwin's return without listening to the Latin mass or looking at the priest's back. If she closed her eyes, she could see Baldwin again. The dream had been so vivid, she started to hope again he might have survived the unlucky expedition.

When she went back to the manor, she heard the cook muttering that one of the house cats had vanished.

"Never trust those animals," the elder woman said. "They're supposed to rid us of mice, but they come and go as they please!"

Startled, Kaylyn asked her which of the many cats wandering through the hamlet had been missing, and the description matched the dead cat she thought she had just dreamed. As dark clouds gathered preparing for another storm, Kaylyn started to think it hadn't been a dream after all. That tonight Baldwin would be back with his blond maker and she'd have to make a choice.

What choice, though? She had no idea what had actually happened to Baldwin. He seemed lively enough... and still in love with her... but... he drank blood...

Daily chores kept her busy until the sun set and a thunderstorm hit the manor house. Everybody retired early, and Kaylyn considered asking Alys to sleep with her for the night. But Alys was married and had a small child, and Kaylyn was a grownup lady. She could handle ghosts. Or whatever Baldwin was.

As soon as she was in the bedroom, Baldwin emerged from the shadows, as if he'd been hiding there all day. Lightning made him appear suddenly by the bed, and she yelped in surprise.

"Baldwin!" She rushed to him. She needed to be sure – if he was real, if he was alive...

He was solid. But he was cold. Very cold.

"I haven't fed yet," he apologized. "When I drink blood, my skin gets warmer."

"So I didn't dream any of it?" She felt anguished.

He sat her on the bed and took her hand like he used to. His voice was soothing as he told her how he'd been crushed under the walls of Damascus and left bleeding and dying under the stars until Bran had shown up.

"He gave me his blood. My body died, but my wounds healed. And I was reborn into this second life," he said, thoughtful. "I was confused at first, but I got used to it. I thought it would be hell, but it's not. I'm alive, somehow, and I was able to come back, to see you again..." His brown eyes gazed at her with the same tenderness they had before he'd left.

She kissed him. He didn't smell of blood. His lips were cold but welcoming. She started undressing him, touching him to check if it was true, if his body still worked... His cold skin made her shiver and she wasn't sure she could feel his heartbeat, but she lost herself in her husband's arms, forgetting her menstruation.

He made love to her and then he bit her between neck and shoulder. A thunderclap covered her scream, and then she moaned in pleasure as he sucked her blood, pressing his hardness inside her. Maybe she could have that child she'd been wishing for after all...

She passed out.

***

She woke up lying next to Baldwin, who was out cold. A deep slumber from which he didn't seem to be able to wake.

Alys was standing by the bed, her face more worried than ever.

"He has indeed come back, my lady, but he is so pale," Alys whispered, her chin pointing at sleeping Baldwin. "Maybe he's sick?"

"I'd take his malady anytime," Kaylyn replied. "He's my husband... Did he knock on the manor's door?" Her voice and thoughts were slurred by some kind of fever.

Alys nodded. "At dawn. He greeted everyone, then said he was very tired from the journey and joined you in bed."

Kaylyn shivered.

"Alys, please, bring in the bathtub. I want to be clean when he wakes up."

Alys nodded and quickly left. Kaylyn lay down and watched Baldwin sleep for some time. She vaguely remembered the night before, his touch, his kisses and that strange bite. She touched her neck and found the scars. Hopefully Alys hadn't seen them.

Two servants brought the bathtub and buckets of warm water. It was All Souls' Day and Kaylyn should be out, commemorating the departed and supervising the special meal, much like the day before, but she felt weak. Alys had to help her out of bed and into the bathtub.

"I'm worried, Lady Katheryne. What if Lord Baldwin is not really himself? What if he's a revenant?"

"What if a miracle made him survive and come back to me?" Kaylyn replied, splashing the warm water around her trembling body.

"But he's so cold!" Alys made the sign of the cross. "And he came back on All Souls' Day... like a faithful departed..."

"He's not a ghost, is he?" Kaylyn replied wearily. "I mean, you touched him, didn't you?"

"Yes. That's how I know his skin is too cold to be alive."

Kaylyn shrugged. "Was he alone?" she asked, slowly washing her body while Alys took care of her long hair.

"Yes, why?" Alys answered, puzzled.

"He wasn't last night... or the night before." Kaylyn sighed and closed her eyes. She felt drowsy again. "I won't eat today, Alys... Just bring me some tea."

Again, Alys helped her out of the bathtub and back to bed, giving her a clean chemise. Kaylyn slipped under the covers, shivering again. Baldwin's body was cold, so she stayed on the other side of the bed.

Alys came back with an herbal tea, and the men who took away the bathtub. She gave the steamy drink to Kaylyn, muttering a prayer. Kaylyn sipped it, then lay down again, drifting off to sleep. She felt Alys's cool hand on her forehead, then nothing.

The day passed and Kaylyn didn't rise from the bed. The priest came to see her, but she was asleep. Alys watched over her until Baldwin awoke a couple hours before sunset and chased her out of the room.

Night came and suddenly Kaylyn felt alert. Baldwin was by her side, holding her close.

"Am I sick?" she asked, shivering.

"I'm sorry, beloved, I shouldn't have drunk your blood," he apologized gravely. "You will recover."

"And will I have your baby?"

"Maybe... I don't want you to go through that ordeal, though. Say the word, and we'll be together forever."

"Childless..." She sighed and closed her eyes.

"We don't need children to show our love," he chided. "I'll marry you again and again if you'd have me."

"But... how will we live?"

"We will be free. We can travel, see the world, cross the seven seas... We won't be sick, won't feel the cold, the plague won't hurt us, and it will be very hard to kill us."

"How can you tell?"

"I came back. Mortal things will pass, but we will stay."

"Not even our Lord Jesus was immortal, Baldwin!"

"I am no longer a child of God," Baldwin replied mournfully. "I am a child of darkness. The moon is my best friend, the sun is my enemy. Please share eternity with me."

Kaylyn hesitated. He read her mind and had answers for all her questions. She loved him. She had missed him. She wanted to be with him, in his strong arms, forever.

"I'm yours, Baldwin, do what you please..."

He kissed her. "As soon as Bran comes back, he shall give you the dark gift."

"Where is he?" she asked, remembering the blond man. "Didn't he come with you?"

"No, he said he was going to Lincoln to see if he could find a copy of that book you mentioned by Geoffrey de Monmouth."

"Oh. So when is he coming back?"

"I'm here." Bran's voice startled her. He'd entered the room silent as a cat and his pale face appeared in the dim ray of light given off by the lamp. "I found most of what I was looking for. Interesting reading... Although that newer author seems a bit of a charlatan. I don't know how he came up with some notions!"

"You mean you went to Lincoln, read some books, and then came back in less than a day?" Kaylyn asked, puzzled.

Bran flashed a fanged smile at her. "I am quite fast when I'm not encumbered by a sleepy fledgling," he said.

Baldwin cleared his throat. "Bran... So how many books did you read?"

"The Venerable Bede, Nennius and that Saint Gildas were more competent than Geoffrey de Monmouth. I don't think he actually read any of them."

"So it's all fake? There's no Merlin and King Arthur and..." Kaylyn was disappointed.

"I told you there was a Myrddin," Bran said. "But the other kings... lost to time. And no, I'm not in the mood to tell you the real history of Brittany."

"And never will be," Baldwin warned to Kaylyn's disappointment. "He hates talking about the past."

"The past is past and the future is unknown," Bran replied. "Let's concentrate on the present, shall we? I have an excellent memory, since there weren't this many written records in my time, but maybe one day I will write the history of my people. For now I'll just keep looking for new stories. Like that _Chanson de Roland._.. Made up, most of it. But it's fun and pleasant to listen to, so..."

"Bran loves stories." Baldwin stared fondly at his maker. "As long as one doesn't try to pass them off as truth."

"So what happens now?" Kaylyn asked, a little shaken in her resolution. Obviously there was some other truth to whatever she'd been taught. She was kind of curious to discover more, especially if she had Baldwin by her side.

"A little blood loss won't kill you," Bran said. "Do you want life eternal or not?"

Kaylyn looked at Baldwin who squeezed her fingers. He was still quite cold and very pale.

"Do you need to drink blood?" she asked, frowning in worry. "Take it from me! Like I told Alys, I'd take your malady anytime!"

"And then will you have Bran's gift?" he asked, hopeful.

She nodded. He took her wrist to his mouth and bit her. Again the pain was a flash that quickly vanished. She watched him suck her blood until her head spun. She slumped back on the pillow. Her vision was blurred.

Bran leaned over her. Something was pressed to her lips. Warm liquid went down her throat. She closed her eyes and started sucking.

"Enough, Kaylyn, don't be greedy." Bran freed his wrist and she collapsed in Baldwin's arms. He looked so beautiful now... not pale, not sickly, but her hero again. Kaylyn kissed him then moaned as her body died. Her bowels emptied themselves and she felt blood pouring out between her legs as if she were giving birth. Then everything was still and dark.

She slowly regained control of her body. She gasped for breath and threw her arms around Baldwin's neck. He smiled before kissing her. Their fangs met and scratched each other's mouth and lips. She pulled back and watched, amazed, as the wounds closed themselves before her eyes.

The blood was delicious.

"We better find you a proper meal," Bran said. "Time to go hunting, my children."

Baldwin rose and offered his hand. She took off the dirty chemise and wore her tight-fitting wool gown to go out in the drizzle. She didn't feel the cold anymore.

***

The Fens were a naturally marshy region of eastern England. The marshland of the area primarily lay around the coast of the Walsh and had both fresh and salt-water wetlands. Within the Fenland there were a few hills that were called "islands" since they remained dry when the low-lying fens around them were flooded.

Some areas of the Fens were permanently flooded, creating small lakes, or _meres_ , and the southern part was afforested. Baldwin's manor house was in the Lincolnshire part of the Kesteven Forest. The Fenland was also referred to as the Holy Land of the English because of the churches and cathedrals of Ely, Ramsey, Crowland, Thorney and Peterborough, and in the early Christian period of Anglo-Saxon England a number of Christians had sought the isolation that could be found in the wilderness.

To build the Norman stone castle at Lincoln, William the Conqueror had destroyed at least three churches and over a hundred dwellings. The town and cathedral were built on a Roman site. Not so for Baldwin's manor house, a minor possession for a younger brother of the Earl of Lincoln.

Kaylyn looked around with new eyes after tasting Bran's blood. The washes, the fens, the moors. The royal forest and the manor with its hamlet and church. The clouds were gone and the stars shone bright, giving everything a magic light.

Kaylyn's eyes saw everything as if it were daylight. The sounds were different. The _smells_ were different, stronger. She could feel the warm-blooded creatures and listen to their little hearts beat.

She was thirsty. Baldwin guided her through the trees, looking for prey. A pair of foxes didn't see them coming. Kaylyn dipped her fangs in the fox's neck and sucked the warm blood. It wasn't enough to quench her thirst, though, so Baldwin took her hand again and they went farther, light as feathers, quiet as ghosts, until they found a deer, and then a boar.

Satiated with the blood of those animals, Kaylyn looked proudly at her husband. He smiled at her, his new wolfish smile that now looked very appealing. His skin was warm and he appeared less pale.

"We can still have normal food, but this is so much better," he said. "Now let's go back. Dawn is close and you will soon fall asleep... I'll be watching over you, beloved, don't worry."

"Did you also sleep for most of the first year?" she asked, a little worried.

"Yes, that's why we didn't move very fast at first. But you'll see, soon you won't need that day slumber anymore..."

Kaylyn took his hand and followed him back to the manor. Baldwin had returned from his pilgrimage and would take care of everything from now on. Her hero was back. And they'd be together forever.

*****

If you enjoyed this story you might like to read more of Barbara's writing. Such as...

Rajveer the Vampire

by Barbara Tarn

A "sun clan" warrior can never become a true child of darkness.

In 14th century India, Rajveer, a proud Rajput warrior of a Suryavanshi clan, is turned into a bloodsucker by an ancient Celtic vampire. Immortal, he loses his family to war and time and travels through northern India, seeing history unfold. Threatened by both human wars and evil vampires, can he remain true to his sworn vow not to take human lives?

A vampire's journey through the centuries.

*****

**Barbara G.Tarn had an intense life in the Middle Ages** that stuck with her through the centuries. She prefers swords to guns, long gowns to mini-skirts, and even though she buried the warrior woman, she deplores the death of knights in shining chainmail. She likes to think her condo apartment is a medieval castle, unfortunately lacking a dungeon to throw noisy neighbors and naughty colleagues in. Also known as the Lady with the Unicorns, these days she prefers to add a touch of fantasy to all her stories, past and present – when she's not wandering in her fantasy world of Silvery Earth or in her Star Minds futuristic universe. She's a writer, sometimes artist, mostly a world-creator and story-teller – stories comprise shorts, novels and graphic novels. Her novella "The Hooded Man" has received an Honorable Mention at the Writers of the Future contest. Used to multiple projects (a graphic novel is always on the side of the prose), she writes, draws, ignores her day job and blogs at: http://creativebarbwire.wordpress.com where you can find all her social media links.

**Website:** http://creativebarbwire.wordpress.com

#  Short Cut

By Roger Lawrence

'Let's go this way. It's a short cut.'

Martin didn't care if it magically transported him back to his front room. No way was he going through any graveyard, but specifically not this graveyard and not on Halloween.

'Are you mad, or what?' You know what happened here last year.' Any slight inebriation still lingering after five pints of Best bitter fled as quickly as his courage. The thought of traversing that awful place where the man had been found impaled on the rotting fence post with most of his...no, he didn't want to think about it. Video-nasties were one thing, but this was real life. No way.

'Oh, come on.' Tony, dwarfed by the intimidating bulk of Derek standing so near, laughed weakly. 'He was drunk and he tripped, and anyway it was a fox what ate his gizzards. Well, we're going.' He slurred jubilantly at Martin and clambered over the low crumbling wall as quickly as his advanced state of drunkenness would allow. His tumbling gait immediately propelled him into a fence post, catching his jacket which tore with a sickening sound that reminded Martin of...no, he wasn't going to think of it.

Derek leaped nimbly over, brushing the wet leaves from his coat disdainfully while Tony clambered to his feet and leaned against a rotting oak tree simulating a confidence his eyes readily betrayed.

'We're going, and if you don't, you're really going to cop it tomorrow. You know what the lads think of wimps.' Derek still seemed to be itching for a fight since they'd been asked to leave the pub before he could get even with those blokes from the design department at work who'd been getting a bit too mouthy.

Martin turned away determinedly, knowing full well what they'd say to everyone at the track the next day if he didn't go with them, and the abuse that would result. Attempting, quite unsuccessfully, to maintain his dignity he ignored their now distant cat-calls.

'Wimp!'

'Girly!'

'Don't care,' he muttered, spouting geysers of steam into the freezing October night. Should have started Karate like his dad told him. He knew Derek was just a bully who would run after a good kick, and the only reason Tony hung around so much was because he was afraid of him.

He turned, peering hopefully for an empty taxi. It was only two miles home but he was tired and there was no way he was going to drive after boozing no matter what Derek said. Dave had done that a couple of years ago and look at him now. Progressive Vegetative something-or-other. All he knew was that the best pool and darts player in the pub now spent his whole life being spoon fed by his mum and messing his nappie while staring at nothing and saying goo to everyone he saw.

Looked like snow again, he sighed, squinting upwards into the low swirling clouds. Best just get home. He didn't care what they said tomorrow.

He winced at the biting wind gusting mournfully around the empty streets. No one seemed to be out, which was probably wise. Made it spooky, though. The shops, always so bright and busy in the daytime, now resembled dark sinister eyes glaring malevolently out at him. Even the clanking of the loose reflector on the single working street lamp sounded like a monotonous death knell. He shut the images out of his mind, while rummaging through his pockets. After his third attempt to light a cigarette he ducked into a shop front. This time the flame lit the end of his quivering cigarette causing him to gag at the still course taste of this newly acquired habit. He didn't even like smoking, anyway. Just on the point of dropping the guttering match, he jumped in terror as the quivering flame illuminated the cowering figure staring menacingly at him.

'Idiot.' He muttered angrily, watching his own reflection in the glass fading with the spent match. Thinking about that dead man had scared him badly. Yet it wasn't even as if the police had been looking for anyone in connection with the poor bloke. It was just such a gruesome story and this village being so far from civilisation, the local rags had lost no opportunity in juicing it up to make it sound scarier than it really was.

He moved on again, the cold now penetrating even the thick greatcoat he'd bought at the army and navy store a couple of months ago. He was definitely going to see a lot less of Derek and Tony in future. And he was going to think some more on what his dad had been nagging him about for years. The army might be a good idea after all. And what about that postcard he'd got from, what was that kid's name from school? The one who'd joined the infantry. That beach in Cyprus looked really good. Lots of sun, cheap booze; cheap girls too if what's-his-name could be believed.

A flake of snow landed gently on his nose. Looking up, the sky had gone now as the slowly descending flakes became even thicker. He'd better move it. Didn't want to freeze to death. His mum was always going on to him about his chest. Not that he would ever admit it to the rest of them but if he got the sniffles tonight it would be weeks before they went away.

A slight nipping in his nostrils told him that it was getting even colder. He tugged the thick collar even higher about his neck, throwing the cigarette into the gutter and blowing into his hands before stopping again. He could have sworn he'd heard a distant but blood curdling scream.

'Tossers.' They never gave up. Well he'd show them tomorrow. An idea began to form. There was the long plastic scar he'd bought at the joke shop and worn to the fancy dress do at the pub last Halloween. The one that looked like pus was dripping from it. Actually that had been his own little embellishment. The custard he'd poured over it had looked really good. Maybe he'd wear it on his arm to work tomorrow. Stagger screaming into the canteen before the shift began with a bit of ketchup on his jacket. Then fall onto Derek or Tony and let the jacket drop to reveal the scar. And the story he'd croak just before fainting away. That'd fix them. Everyone on his shift wanted to see Derek look stupid for a change. Smiling now he turned towards the long hill to his house.

'Could I trouble you for a light?'

Caught completely by surprise, he fell backwards, tripping on an old cola can and falling heavily against a dead street lamp, crying out as his head connected painfully.

'I, er, don't smoke.' He said it automatically, just like he always did, because you could never tell if you'd get anything back; especially with some of the people who hung around the streets these days.

'Oh well, it's a bad habit, anyway,' sighed an old man sheltering in a doorway, shrouded by a voluminous overcoat at least five sizes too large for him. Martin cursed himself for being a wimp.

'Wait, hang on.' He rifled his pockets. 'I think I might have some matches.' Had to keep some of his credibility, even if it was just an old man. 'I usually keep some, just in case.'

'Good.' The old man said, taking the proffered box with an emaciated hand. 'Most youngsters today don't think of things like that. Always keep a light handy. You never know when a lady might need it, my old mother used to say. Never forgot that. It always kept me in good stead.' He had a surprisingly cultured voice for a wino. 'Yes, most of the youngsters today have no manners at all,' he continued, pocketing the matches. 'Present company accepted of course.'

'Huh? Oh, yes.' He knew he should be going but something about the old man's voice compelled him to stay.

'Cold night.' He muttered, pulling his coat tighter. The man looked pitiful somehow. It didn't seem fair for him to be out on a night like this. Him being bald and with no hat. 'Are you all right? I mean,' he mumbled awkwardly, 'have you anywhere to go? You're not hungry or anything?' The old man smiled faintly. The glow from a distant light just enough to illuminate his pinched face.

'Oh yes. I've got somewhere to go tonight. And I'll be fine later when I've had a snack. I have something planned.'

'Right, then.' With his conscience partially cleansed, Martin felt better about going. Couldn't stand here all night. He turned to the man for the last time. 'I'll see you around.'

'Not taking the short cut through the graveyard?'

'What?' Could the old man read his mind? 'Er, no, I don't like going through...' He felt stupid enough without revealing his fears to an old man.

'Yes, you're probably right.' The man reassured him, his eyes suddenly glowing bright red as he seemed to double in size, the overcoat becoming tight on an incredibly powerful body from which immensely long arms suddenly protruded. Easily overpowering the struggles of his prey he grabbed Martin's head, eyes wide in absolute terror. Fangs appeared at the man's mouth – black and stained with things he would never have time to ponder. And it was just as the realisation of death washed over him, accompanied by urine coursing down his leg, when the pressure ceased. Those eyes, still red, had swivelled, no longer staring at him. A moment later an almighty whoosh of air flung Martin backwards to hit the ground with a painful thump as the creature flew, no hurtled in the other direction.

Was that it? Had this all been a dream? Martin could see the creature, whatever it was, now lying on the ground, its black huddled mass shrinking, smouldering in the cold air. Regaining partial use of his wits, he clambered up ready to spring away, a scream bubbling deep in his throat. Only for something else to grab his shoulders, the biting grip even stronger than before. He could feel long knives, or perhaps talons sinking effortlessly through the coat and his skin, grating painfully against his bones.

Now another pair of eyes fastened on him. In a final brief second of lucidity, he turned to the other shape, now a huddled mass, scarcely more than the old overcoat it had worn. Something long and razor sharp suddenly piercing the skin beneath his jaw, forced his head back to this new horror. New eyes stared malevolently at him. These eyes were not red but another colour; one that he never could have named. However he was given no time to ponder the question for with a tearing sound he barely heard, two more fangs sank into his neck. Now almost immune to the pain, he hardly felt them as his life drained away. Terror became blackness then nothing.

His lifeless body hit the ground with a soggy thud. And towering over both Martin and the first fallen creature, something detached itself. An aura of blackness even darker than the night filled the air, pulsating, stilling the few night birds startled by the noise. The thing turned, Martin already forgotten. It moved away, neither walking nor floating, but something in between. For a moment those glowing eyes fastened on the dead thing at its feet. Then it moved away with a disdainful mutter.

'Bloody amateur.'

*****

If you enjoyed this story you might like to read more of Roger's writing. Such as...

A Little Twist

by Roger Lawrence

A selection of short stories with a twist in the tail

*****

**I've yet to decide which is my favourite genre,** so I've written in quite a few. From three comedy SF novels of three teenage heroes saving the galaxy from murdering mutants, to an occasionally humorous series about three cantankerous old gits who do the opposite, albeit accidentally. My second horror novel in a series of three has just hit the shelves and my first suspense mystery with a little horror thrown in will be ready soon. I also have a collection of short stories with a strange twist at the end.

The second Old Geezers installment is under furious editing and I've just begun the third monster installment. I wish there were twenty five hours in the day so I could do more.

#  Reapers

By Nikki Hess

Halloween--it's always the worst night of the year for us to do our jobs.  
You'd think Halloween would be the easiest night. And in some ways it is. You can leave a kill out in the open, and for a while people will just think it's a macabre decoration. And if anyone happens to see you engaging in any bloody activities, it's also the one night you may be able to pass it off as good, messy holiday fun.

But first you've gotta find the person you're supposed to be killing. Not exactly easy when everybody's dressed in costumes. That's why this night is always the worst.

It could be slightly improved if the Reaper Bureau of America—I also call them Really Boneheaded Amateurs, or RBA for short—got its collective head out of its collective butt and scheduled the person to die at, say, 10 in the morning. You know, when they're at home or work, where they could be easily located, identified, and finished off. But in all the time I've been a reaper, I've never had a Halloween kill before 8 PM. The RBA clearly likes to make us work our hardest on what should be our national holiday.

I guess I can't blame the RBA for being a bunch of soulless punks, since I am one too. But at least I've got some freakin' common sense.

Not that my partner would agree. "You're being so obvious, Jack," Kristy groaned when she arrived at my place. "You are _not_ going to the party dressed like that."

"Like that" was a full Grim Reaper costume, scythe and all. "Why not? Nothing wrong with being literal."

"Because you'll scare people. He's not gonna come with us if you look like a scary freak," she scolded me.

This surprised me. Kristy was rarely logical. Luckily, what she lacked in brains she made up for in looks. "But I _am_ a scary freak."

"Yeah, well, let's not tell the world, okay?" She steered me back into my house. (Yes, reapers have houses, paid for by working for the aforementioned Boneheads. No, contrary to popular belief, we don't sleep in graveyards.)

I let Kristy rummage through my closet. Fashion was her thing. She sifted through my everyday wear as well as the costumey clothes from years past, which I'd shoved down at the end of the rack. I hoped she wouldn't find the ridiculous yellow clown costume, which is what one of my old partners, a woman who'd actually ended up being promoted to the RBA, made me wear many years ago on my first Halloween as a reaper. Louise had had an evil streak and wasn't averse to hazing.

But no, Kristy had a different idea. She pulled out shiny tights, a tight-as-hell shirt, and a cape. Looped on the hanger was a stretchy black mask. "Really?" I asked her, raising my eyebrows.

"If you can't be you, be Batman," she said, handing over the outfit. I rolled my eyes at the costume as much as the platitude, but I obliged.

I shrugged out of my cloak and tossed the scythe on the chair. I wasn't shy about letting Kristy see me in the buff. We'd grown close since we became partners a few months ago. I couldn't exactly say that I cared for her—that would mean emotions, which had been mostly muted ever since I became reaperized—but I could say I was used to her. She was comfortable and somehow comforting. And, oh yeah, a firecracker in the sack.

I wriggled my way into the tights. They were a bit tighter than the last time I'd worn them, but from the way Kristy was staring at me, I knew they still looked pretty good. "Maybe later..." she said hopefully.

"Maybe," I said, pulling the shirt over my head. If I wanted to. I probably would—she was undeniably hot—but playing hard to get with her was oddly gratifying.

She helped me tie my cape on. "Tall, dark, and handsome. Just perfect," Kristy chirped.

"Tall, dark, and deadly is more like it."

"It's a _guy_ , Jack, so this kill is mine."

I rolled my eyes. Of course it was. Kristy enjoyed the art of seduction. Her kills—mostly men—always died turned on. I was an equal opportunity killer, just wanting to get the job done no matter who the victim was. Although I was frequently impressed at the lustful ways she often led people to their deaths, I still valued efficiency over romance or kink.

In case you're wondering, some of the unsolved deaths—especially the really weird ones—in your town have probably been caused by me and Kristy, or our other reaper colleagues (there are more of us around than you might think). You don't hear about it because the cops have an arrangement with the RBA to just not solve some of these cases. Panic would ensue if people knew real reapers walked among them every day, looking just like humans but not being human at all. Taking away others' humanity, in fact.

"You didn't say you liked my outfit," she said, pouting.

Truthfully, I'd barely noticed. I took a moment to take her in. "Very nice. Very ironic." She looked like a slutty nurse—short, latex candy-striper uniform, tall white pleather boots, white gloves. Little white nurse cap perched on top of her blonde, curly hair.

"Ironic how?"

"Because you're not gonna be saving any lives tonight," I said, picking up my mask. I glanced at the clock. "It's almost eight thirty. Kill time's the ten o'clock hour. Let's move."

I ushered her out to my car—my one indulgence, a gorgeous black 1990 Porsche 964 Cabriolet—and drove us to the Halloween party, which was about fifteen minutes away. She spent most of it on her phone, checking social media.

"Do you seriously have a Twitter account?" I asked, sneaking a peek at the phone. What the hell would a reaper even tweet about? Especially when the RBA forbids us from discussing juicy things like our jobs.

"Only to follow people. Like Kim Kardashian, you know?"

Incredible. Wasting your life _and_ your afterlife on that junk. But I bit my lip. If I commented and ticked her off, she'd get all annoying in that bitchy, girly way. I already didn't want to be at this party, so I needed her to be smooth and efficient, in and out with the guy, done with the kill as soon as possible. So I quietly let her rot her brain—as if it weren't dead already—with the Kartrashian's sultry-eyed, big-butted selfies.

I swore under my breath as we approached the house the party was in. The street was lined on both sides with cars. I ended up going to park around the block.

We could hear the drunken revelers as soon as we got out of the car. I marveled at this. "Not even nine o'clock yet, and already they're a bunch of idiots."

Kristy clicked her phone off and slid it into her leopard print wristlet. Not very nurse-like, but whatever. "Kind of makes you not feel bad for picking one off, huh?"

I laughed. "Like I ever feel bad about it." I'd died young, and you'd think it would have made me more sympathetic when I had to kill other young people, but nope. Getting hit by a drunk driver at age 25, knowing you didn't get even half the years that most people get to live, can make a guy bitter. So I had no real remorse for doing my job, and I usually enjoyed it in all its _gory_. Misery enjoys company, even in death.

She helped me put my mask on, straightened my little bat ears, and then reached for my hand. I didn't really want to, but I squeezed hers to at least provide the illusion of comfort.

As we walked quietly toward the ever-louder party, it dawned on me. "This is your first Halloween doing this, isn't it?"

She looked up at me, grinned shyly. "Yeah. Been looking forward to it, too."

I knew she was young—in both the age she'd died and the length of time she'd been a reaper—but I'd forgotten she was _this_ young. "Okay. Good. Stick with me and you'll be fine. We've gotta be careful. This is really the toughest night—"

"Aieeeeee!" Some idiot with a noisy fake chainsaw popped out of the bushes by the house. The people standing around with their beer cans snickered when Kristy let out an ear-piercing scream. I glared at the chainsaw guy, hoping that perhaps he was the one we were sent here to find tonight.

"Good to know your lungs still work well, living dead girl," I whispered into her ear. "Just remember, if something scares you, you can't die."

Kind of a lie. She _could_ die, but it was highly unlikely. Regardless, I didn't need her walking in there scared. I have no qualms about lying, so I went with it.

We ducked inside and headed for a corner. I flicked my phone on and looked at the message I was sent a couple hours ago. Since I was the lead reaper out of the two of us, I got all the info. "We're looking for a Mike Jones, age 28. Brown hair, brown eyes." Of course we were. On this night of all nights, we were looking for someone who seemed so aggravatingly _average_. I showed Kristy the picture. She studied it, then looked into the crowd of partygoers. "Huh. Wonder what he's dressed like."

"Study the pic," I told her. "In a minute we're gonna split up, see if we can find him. You find him, you call me. We'll handle it together."

"You find him, you don't kill him," she said, digging a red fingernail into my chest. "He's mine."

I nodded solemnly. "Of course. Now go. Work your magic."

I waited until she walked off, and then I started wandering the room myself. The good news was I could write off about sixty percent of the room already because they were female. Female and extremely scantily clad. I saw Slutty Rainbow Brite, Slutty Alice in Wonderland, several slutty cops and prisoners. A few of them eyed me up appreciatively. I winked at a slutty cop and murmured "Nice handcuffs" as I went by.

I wandered into the kitchen, where a bunch of half-drunk men were playing beer pong. They were much less slutty-looking than the women, but just as weird. A pale, skinny guy was Zombie Julius Caesar, while a shorter, pudgier guy was a Minion—a fitting costume choice for him. I saw Gumby in the corner trying to make out with slutty Pocahontas, a truly bizarre coupling. And filling the beer cups up, there was our man. I was sure of it—well, about 95% sure, anyway.

His face looked pretty similar to the picture I'd been sent. His costume was distracting—Woody from the Toy Story movie—but the nice thing about the costume was that his face wasn't obscured. I was pretty sure this was our guy.

I texted Kristy, told her to come to the kitchen and start flirting with Woody. I reached for a beer myself, took a few sips, feeling good about this having been relatively easy so far. And then I saw Kristy's text. _No hes up here hes a zombee!_

I sighed, remembering now why I preferred to call her rather than text her. In real life I'd been an English major, and even in my afterlife I was still a stickler for spelling and punctuation. "So young," I muttered, abandoning my beer and turning to head upstairs.

When I got there, I found the "zombee" trying to teach Kristy how to play pool. He had his arms around her and was pressing into her a little more closely than one would expect during platonic pool education. She giggled, ground into him, took a shot.

She turned around. "Oh hey, it's Batman! Mike, this is my brother."

He turned around, having at least enough decency to look embarrassed at macking so hard on Kristy in the presence of her "brother." I waved my black gloved hand. "Half-brother, actually," I said. "Nice to meet you."

He grinned. "Nice outfit, bro."

_Bro_. I was really hoping that this was the right guy, because the world could use one less guy who called other guys "bro."

They continued playing, Kristy giggling and flirting with him the whole time. After ten minutes of this nonsense, I said, "Hey, sis. I came up to get you because there's someone I'd like you to meet downstairs."

She shook her head. "But I've got all the people I need right here. Like Mike, with his big, brown eyes." She said that last bit exaggeratedly, giving him a kiss on the cheek. The red lipstick mark smeared into Mike's white zombie makeup, making him look a little more grotesque.

Was he the right guy? Maybe. But I was still pretty convinced the guy downstairs was the right Mike. I needed Kristy to see for herself. "Trust me, sis. You don't wanna miss out."

"What's your friend got that I don't have here?" she said, running her hand through Mike's hair as he, clearly distracted, tried to take a shot.

A date with death, if I was right. "C'mon down and find out," I said, with an edge to my voice. I didn't want to be stuck here all night. Game six of the World Series was on and the Astros, amazingly, had a chance at winning the series. Not that I was some big Houston fan, being from New Jersey, but I still wanted to watch and root for the underdogs. (You can take the life out of the guy, but you can never take the _sports fan_ out of the guy.)

"You go down. I'll follow in a minute."

Why tonight, of all nights, was she choosing to be this pigheaded? I wondered if she was trying to prove herself to me somehow, this being her first Halloween and all. A silly thought on her part, as I didn't care how young she was—I just wanted her to act smartly. Which she rarely ever did anyway, and certainly wasn't doing right now.

But I gave her the benefit of the doubt. "I'll be in the kitchen," I told her, leaving the room. Between my slightly pissed off stance and my cape fluttering behind me, I was the spitting image of badass Batman.

Back downstairs, the guys were still at it with the beer pong. _My_ Mike and his pals looked sloppier, which pleased me. The more sloshed they were, the easier our job would be if this was the guy we were supposed to kill.

"Yo, Batman, you want in?" asked the Minion, whose beer pong partner had wandered off.

I had to do something to pass the time, and I had to look normal lest anyone start wondering what I was doing there. I shrugged. "Sure," I said, joining the minion on his side of the table. At least this would help me keep an eye on Woody, otherwise known as _my_ Mike.

Apparently reaperdom had done nothing good for my beer pong skills. I'd been much better in college. Luckily, reapers can't really feel the effects of alcohol, so at least I was able to gulp down the cheap beer without feeling queasy.

When Kristy still hadn't shown up, I begged off after one game. "Nice game, buddy. Gotta go find my sister. God knows what hell she's raising," I said, slapping the Minion on the back as I left.

I went upstairs to find two guys playing pool and a couple—which, surprisingly, didn't involve my "sister"—making out on the couch. No Kristy, no zombie. Not wanting to draw attention to the zombie's disappearance, I headed back downstairs without saying a word.

I felt my phone buzzing as I walked down the stairs. I didn't recognize the number the text came from. Whatever. I'd read the message in a bit—first I had to find Kristy and make sure she wasn't doing anything stupid.

She hadn't come down to the kitchen. Woody, the guy I thought was our target, was still there and still sucking at beer pong. I ducked into the living room, then the den—no Kristy. Just a bunch of stupid drunks. A slutty witch beckoned me over; I ignored her and headed for the front door.

Would Kristy really have taken him somewhere? Without me? We were supposed to be a team. Kills are done as a pair—or, at least, with both of us present. I'm as egotistical and id-driven as they come, but at least I follow the rules.

I headed around the back of the house. It was getting steadily colder outside; these shiny tights weren't exactly cold weather wear. But I was going to poke around until I found her, and—

There she was. With her back against the side of the shed, sitting next to her Mike. I hurried over. "Sis, you were supposed to—"

She looked up at me with a shit-eating grin. "It's Halloween. Screw _supposed to_. I got him, Jack. He's mine."

I looked down. She'd sure gotten him, all right. His head hung down—she'd broken his neck, and he looked like he was very freshly dead.

"Seriously?" I hissed.

She shrugged. "He got handsy with me."

"He did not. You're out of bounds," I growled.

"What are you gonna do, ground me? Come on, Jack, let's go back to the party."

"No way. We're leaving," I said, grabbing her arm and yanking her up and fighting the urge to kick her.

"So then you believe me, that I got the right guy. _Told_ you so."

I shook my head. She was unbelievable.

"I want to go grab a beer for the road," she said, shaking me off.

"You realize it won't actually make you drunk—oh, whatever," I said, disgusted. I wanted her out of my sight for a few minutes, so I let her go.

As she bounded off, I pulled out my phone and checked the text. It simply said, "Unanticipated soul."

"Oh hell," I muttered. I'd heard of this happening before. To other reaper pairs—never to me. No, I was careful with my work. I'd never made this kind of mistake.

My phone rang, and I quickly picked it up, not wanting to draw attention to myself outside with a dead body.

"Jack. It's Sasha. You know I'm on vacation, right?"

My boss. _Wonderful_. I swallowed. "Yes."

"Then why am I getting called to deal with a problem like this? On Halloween, of all nights? Do you know where I am? I'm in San Francisco, at the _biggest_ Halloween party, with the _most_ hedonists, and the _wildest_ costumes—"

"I'm sorry, Sash." I wasn't, but I knew it would help to be deferential. "I didn't do it, though."

"I know. It was your idiot partner."

I shook my head, wondering how RBA technology had evolved so much that she knew this. But I was grateful she knew it wasn't me. "So now what?" I asked.

"So now you go deal with the right guy. And then—this was her third strike, Jack. So then you handle _her_."

Gulp. "Handle her—how?"

"You aced your reaper training. I'm sure you remember the rhyme."

"Okay," I said uneasily. I'd never done anything like it before. But orders were orders.

"Later tonight, when I am standing over the two guys I've had in the palm of my hand since I've been here, in my very special tall boots and wielding a whip, I had better be interrupted by one notification tonight, and only one. And it had better indicate that you got. Your. Jobs. _Done_."

I wanted to ask her if the domme getup was her Halloween costume or not, but decided against it. Besides, nothing would really surprise me about my boss, who was known to have a fierce dark side. "Absolutely," I assured her. She hung up before I could—albeit somewhat sarcastically—wish her a happy Halloween.

I felt a shiver down my spine. I felt a little dread, sure, but more than that, I felt excited. Quickly, I headed in the back door, cape flapping.

After a minute of scouting around, I found the beer pong guys in the den. Woody, the one I was certain was the right Mike, was lounging in a ratty armchair, watching a wrestling match with half-open eyes.

I grabbed his arm. "Mike? You're Mike, right?"

He nodded, looking at me blearily. "You're Batman, the crap beer pong player."

I rolled my eyes. Like he had any room to talk. But I uncharacteristically let the comment slide. Instead, I worked on extracting him from the chair. Ironically, he—like all stupidly drunk guys—moved like dead weight. "You've gotta come with me. There's been an accident."

His eyes now shone with fear. "No... _no_. Is it my mom?"

I mentally thanked him for making this part of the job easy for me. "I'm afraid so," I said grimly. "Come with me and maybe we can get you there to see her in time."

He looked at me curiously and then asked, "Will we get there quickly in the Batmobile?"

I glanced at him. Yep, he was dead serious. Having been out of the human race for so long, I'd forgotten how freakin' stupid alcohol made people. "Yep. But I had to park it somewhere inconspicuous. Come with me."

Sluggishly, he got up. Followed me out the back door. "Where is it?" he asked, his eyes scanning the dark backyard.

"Back here," I said, taking his arm and leading him further out, back to the shed where the wrong body still sat. As soon as he rounded the corner and got fully behind the shed, I grabbed him around the neck and squeezed.

He barely got out a "What the—" before he started gurgling. I squeezed harder, my black gloves digging deeper into the flesh on his neck. I squeezed a little extra long, making really sure that this time, the job was actually done right. Then I tested the body, as I always do, checking for pulse and any signs of breathing. Negative. Good.

I let him fall to the ground behind the shed and I ran back around it, nearly slamming into a slutty unicorn and a drunken caveman, clearly headed out to hook up.

The caveman eyed me. I looked a little suspicious, by myself, in all black, and moving quickly. "What were you—" he asked.

"Taking a leak. Toilet in there's overflowed," I said, jabbing my thumb toward the house. "Watch out for wet spots."

I hustled out of there and headed for the car. At this point I needed to leave with or without Kristy. Our lovebirds would discover one corpse, maybe two, soon, and I needed to be out of the picture. The RBA gets understandably pissed if we actually get caught; it creates a whole lot of hassle they'd rather not deal with.

I went down the street, around the corner. There was Kristy, leaning up against my car. Flirting with a Stormtrooper. I glared at her and pushed past them to the driver's side. "Sis, get in the car. We're leaving. Now."

She had a wicked grin. "Can I bring my new friend home?"

"No," I snapped. "Get in. _Now_."

She rolled her eyes and whispered something to the guy. I was hoping it wasn't her phone number. I didn't want either of us having any ties back here that cops could nose their way into later.

She came around the passenger side, throwing herself into the seat with a sigh. "Thanks a lot, _brother_."

Silently, I started up and sped off. I couldn't talk to her. I had too much on my mind. Rare for a reaper—not that we didn't think, more that we didn't allow our feelings to really take control anymore.

She scrolled through a feed on her phone, Twitter or Instagram or something. "You'll never guess what Heidi Klum's costume was this year!" she squealed.

I shook my head, kept my eyes on the road.

"Who peed in your Lucky Charms, Jack?" she said, punching me in the shoulder.

I turned and glared at her. "Shut up."

"You're just angry 'cause I was right and you were wrong about the Mike. You can't be right _all_ the time. Older reaper doesn't always mean wiser—"

"I said, shut. _Up_."

Not only did she not listen, but then she did the worst thing ever. She tickled me.

And I squealed like a girl. Not even a badass reaper girl. Like a _human_ girl.

It was impossible for me to keep control of the car with her tickling me, and I felt the car heading right, veering over a rumble strip. And then, through my squeals and her laughter came another sound:

_Slam_. Then _crunch_.

I dared to look up. I didn't want to, but I had to. And when I did, I saw two things: smoke and a deer blinking its dazed eyes at me.

Son of a bitch. "Put that phone to good use and call me a tow truck," I snapped at Kristy.

I hustled out of the car to assess the damage. This car was the one thing I actually cared about nowadays, and it broke whatever heart I had left to see it in this condition. Front end crunched up. Deer dents on the hood. Deer face smushed against the hood. I hoped it was freaking Kristy out a bit to have the animal staring at her. Then again, she might be too oblivious to even notice.

Once again, I was glad the Batman costume had gloves. I reached for the deer, pulled it off the hood—slowly, even does are pretty heavy, and reapers aren't blessed with superhuman strength—and let it slide onto the road.

It was crumpled up but still moving, shaking a bit, actually. A tiny part of me pitied it. I leaned over like I was giving it a hug and twisted its neck. The moving stopped. I looked into its eyes, now giving me a blank eternal stare, and sighed. Part of me wanted to rationalize that I'd done this to make it easier on the badly injured deer, but no—more than anything, I'd done it because I'd been killing for so long now that it felt normal, dare I say even _good_.

I took in the damage to my car. It would need some repairs. Probably be in the shop for a few weeks. If it could be repaired, that is.

I could feel the anger boiling in the pit of my stomach. I opened the car door and asked Kristy if the tow truck was on its way.

"Yeah. They said like forty minutes. It's cold out there, why don't you c'mon back in?"

It was getting chilly, and I had nothing else to do outside, so I reluctantly climbed back in.

"So let's have the truck take you to my place, and I'll drive you back in the morning," she said. "You still up for, you know, stuff?"

I really wasn't, but I told her yes anyway. It would make things easier.

"Let's make it special, Jack. My first Halloween. My first Halloween kill! What do you say?"

I nodded. "Yeah, I think we can do that."

I sat in silence while Kristy mindlessly scrolled through Twitter, occasionally giggling at something I didn't care enough to know about. When the tow truck arrived—ten minutes early, a nice Halloween treat—I reluctantly got out of my car.

The tow truck driver eyed my getup. "Say, this doesn't look like the Batmobile."

I forced a smile. "And I'm pretty sure the real Batman would have been able to avoid hitting a deer, too."

I tried to hide my sadness as my car got loaded up onto the tow truck. Kristy, putting the phone in her purse, came over and wrapped one skinny arm around me. "Sorry, Jack. Guess you got the trick end of trick or treating, huh?"

I held back from telling her that this was entirely preventable and that she was an idiot. Instead I leaned into her and said, "Yep. Sucks, huh? Thanks for being there."

We squeezed into the tow truck cab. Kristy used it as an excuse to press against me extra close. The driver turned on the radio and pulled away from the curb. Country music. Wonderful. If there was a hell for reapers, I was officially in it.

It took twenty minutes to get to the auto repair shop and then another ten to get to Kristy's. During that time I was treated to music by Toby Keith, pictures of Lady Gaga's Halloween costume on Instagram (it looked outrageous, all right, but I still couldn't quite tell what she was), and the lovely sounds of our very refined tow truck driver spitting a loogie out the window. Part of me was dreading getting back to Kristy's, and part of me (namely my ears) couldn't wait.

When we arrived at her house, Kristy half-tripped out of the high truck cab. I thanked the driver and followed her up the stone path to her door. He beeped the horn at me and winked.

"Guess he thinks you're getting lucky!" said Kristy, laughing as she unlocked her door.

I smiled at her. "Well, aren't I?"

She grabbed my hand and pulled me inside. "Obvi," she said, locking the door behind me. I shook my head at _obvi_. Kids these days.

She led me up the stairs and back to her bedroom. I didn't need to be led; I'd been there plenty of times before. Post-kill sex wasn't a tradition after _every_ kill, but it happened fairly frequently.

She pulled me down on the bed and kissed me. I pulled away and held her face, staring into her big blue eyes.

"It's your first reaper Halloween," I said. "I'm going to make it special, remember?"

She raised her eyebrows. "So what do you have in mind? I could head down to Duffy's and pick up another chick for us—remember how fun that was?"

"No, no," I said. "That was great, but we've done that before. Let's think differently."

She mock-pouted. "Well, you're the smart one, Jack. I'm just the boobs and the mouth."

Very true. And that had often worked in her favor as a reaper. Charm the victim with her lush lips and big tits right up until their last breath. I leaned in closer, whispered in her ear, then nibbled on it. "You ever been tied up before?"

"Ooh!" she gushed. "I've usually been the one to do the tying, but for you, Batman, I'll try it this way."

"Stay here," I said, getting up from the bed. "Give me a minute."

I went downstairs to her living room and looked around. The only thing that might work would be the curtain ties. So I took them off, letting her burgundy curtains fall in front of the window. Then I went into her kitchen and took a knife from the block—the longest, sharpest one I saw.

I went back to the bedroom and waved the knife at her. She looked at the knife, then at me, a little confused.

"It's okay. Trust me," I said. Then, more forcefully, "And get the hell up and come over here. Now."

She grinned and jumped off the bed, nearly prancing over to me. "Yes, sir?" she purred, laying it on thick.

"Stay still so I don't cut you," I growled, and then I sliced off the nurse's outfit piece by piece. She giggled as the trashy clothing fell to the floor, pooling around her feet. I sliced everything off but her boots and her white lace thong. Then I slapped her on the butt and said, "Move it. Get on the bed. On your belly."

She followed orders very well, jumping back up on the bed and laying down, butt up in the air, face smushed into the pillow. Better than I'd asked for. If only she hadn't waited until now to behave.

I went up the left side of the bed, securing her wrist to the bedpost. "Feel okay?" I whispered.

"Yeah," she said, trying to wriggle her wrist. She couldn't get out of the bond. Good. I went to the other side and repeated the process.

Her face was still down, so she didn't see me gently set the knife on the nightstand. I climbed on top of her, kneeling in between her knees, and I reached for her neck. Her pretty, slender neck. I pushed her blonde curls out of the way.

"Ooh, I like this, Jack," she said, trying to wrap her legs around me. "I really like this."

Truthfully, so did I. Kristy had a pretty amazing body, and her enthusiasm was unparalleled. But I couldn't let myself get derailed tonight.

I tightened my hands around her neck. "So Kristy," I said casually, "Let's play a little game. I think there's some things you never told me. Secrets."

"I'll tell you whatever you want to know," she said, in a voice that was almost begging.

"So in the first month you became a reaper, you screwed up, your first partner got caught by the cops, and you got reprimanded by the bureau. Right?"

"How'd you hear that?" she asked, scooching her butt up against me.

"And then, just three months later, somebody saw you kill a woman, and they made quite the scene. And so you had to leave California for the east coast because the RBA feared you'd be recognized."

She laughed. "That didn't work out too badly, though, right? 'Cause here I am with you."

I smiled sadly. "And tonight, my dear, you committed your third offense. Killing the wrong guy."

She gasped, tried to turn around. Having her hands tied to the bed made it difficult for her to really look back and see me. "I didn't!"

"You did," I said, gripping tighter. "I had to go back and kill the right one. And now..."

"You're not gonna tell on me, Jack, are you?" She got a little-girl tone to her voice, creepy given the circumstances we were in right now, with her nearly nude on the bed.

"They already know. They called and told me."

"But...does that mean I have to leave you? Go somewhere else?" She sounded angry now, panicked.

I sighed. Didn't she remember anything from the two-week orientation that every reaper got? "Kristy, that's three strikes. Don't you know what that means?"

She shook her head, curls bouncing. "Let's talk about it later, please? Let's just, you know, have fun. And then I'll go wherever I have to go—"

"Not that easy. There's a rule, and a line that you crossed, and—don't you even know the rhyme?"

"Huh?"

"If they're undead, behead." It was the twisted rhyme they taught us in training, telling us we'd rarely if ever have to use it, and ideally never. Yet here I was with the knife in my hand and poor, dumb Kristy, who—between her desperation and her stupidity—I almost felt sorry for. But I'd made a promise to my boss, and I didn't want to be the one who caught hell, so—

I pressed the knife tip into her neck. She shuddered, then screamed, thrashing the lower part of her body around, trying futilely to kick me and wriggle away. I was very glad I'd tied her down. "No, Jack, no, I—"

I raised the knife, slashing her with it, cutting deep. But not deep enough. She was still making plenty of noise, and I couldn't stop until she was in two pieces. Rules were rules.

I cursed the Cuisinart knives—great for cutting meat, not so great for cutting through human bone. But even though it took me over fifteen minutes I did the deed, hacking away at her neck until the sheets, her hair, her back, and I were all covered in blood. Until her head rolled away from her neck, lolling on its side, eyes open wide in a fixed stare of terror.

I kissed the side of her head, tasting her salty, metallic blood. I licked my lips. "You've been fun," I said matter-of-factly. "I wish it didn't have to end this way, partner. But it's really your fault, you know."

I got up off the bed, glanced one more time at that perky butt of hers, and left the room, closing the door gently behind me. I texted Sasha, letting her know my jobs were done. She didn't message me back—probably too busy enjoying something debauched.

I looked at my watch. It was well past the witching hour. Time to head home and sneak in a few hours of sleep before getting up to find out what new kill—and, presumably, new partner—would be waiting for me in the morning.

Before I left, I grabbed Kristy's car keys from her purse. Finder's reaper's keepers, right? I don't quite know what happens when a member of the undead gets killed, but no matter what, she wouldn't be needing those keys anymore.

Still clad in my Batman getup, I went outside, unlocked the door to her cherry red Mustang, and slid in. I could still smell her there, her scent lingering on the leather seats. If I'd been the sentimental type, it probably would have tugged at my heart. But I was a reaper, and I could easily shrug it off. I backed down the driveway, sleepy and eager to leave both Kristy and Halloween behind.

Halloween—it's the always worst night of the year to do my job. But at least _I_ lived to tell the tale.

*****

**Nikki Hess writes twisted fiction.** Halloween is her favorite day of the year. She lurks in the Philadelphia suburbs and is inspired by all things dark and depraved.

**Website:** www.nikkihess.com.

#  Tigress Lizzy

By Rami Ungar

Lizzy Markham slouched her way into the Magic River High School art room, her spirits as damp as her school uniform was at the moment. The art teacher, Mrs. Green, looked up from her desk and her mouth formed an oval shape of shock. "Lizzy, what happened?"

"What do you think?" snapped Lizzy, knowing she was talking harsher than she should but not caring. Stomping across the art room, she grabbed some paper towels from the dispenser and dabbed cola out of her hair and clothes. Once again, Helen Marsden and Bridgette Gray had decided to make her miserable. Those two tried to do something to her at least once a day, and their favorite opportunity to do so was right after they got out of cheerleading practice and before Lizzy got to art club. Today they'd thrown diet coke on her head from the top of the stairs, hence why she was so wet and sticky.

"Sweetie," said Mrs. Green soothingly. Handing Lizzy a clean towel, she said, "You know, you've got to meet them on their level. Try to bridge the gap between you girls."

Lizzy paused for barely a second before dabbing the rest of her body dry. Well, as dry as possible. "Yeah, I'll try." said Lizzy, not intending to do any such thing. Mrs. Green, for all her talent as an artist and an art instructor, was terrible when it came to the interactions of teenagers in a high school setting. There was no level to meet Helen and Bridgette on or any gap to bridge. They were just pretty, tall and popular girls who cheered at games and dated football players, whereas Lizzy was plain, short as a fourth grader and on the outskirts with other would-be artists and intellectual students. School divas like Helen and Bridgette felt it was not only their right and privilege, but their duty to make people like her miserable.

"Lizzy." said Mrs. Green, jarring Lizzy out of her thoughts. She turned and saw her teacher gathering up her purse and teacher's manual from her desk. "I'm going to the pep rally for Friday's game. You sure you don't want to come and watch? It might make it easier to talk to those girls who've been messing with you."

"I'd like to paint a little." said Lizzy. "You go ahead." Mrs. Green gave her a sympathetic shrug and left the room, leaving Lizzy alone. Usually during Magic River pep rallies the other eight or nine members of the art club would go to the gymnasium or the quad to cheer with the other students. Lizzy felt sorry for those guys: they were just trying to survive high school like everyone else, and they thought that by showing up at mainstream school events like games or pep rallies that they could ingratiate themselves with the cheerleaders and jocks who ruled the school and tormented them on a daily basis. Lizzy knew better. No matter how much they tried, the people on the outskirts of high school society could not make their lives better by trying to show school spirit at a rally. The popular kids would still shove them into lockers and throw coke on their heads and break their art supplies, just like they had every day since freshman year.

Sighing, Lizzy went to the back of the room and sifted through the art cabinets. One of the seniors had told her recently of a secret sliding panel in one of the cabinets that not even Mrs. Green knew about, stocked full of cheap liquor. Sure enough, Lizzy found the panel and pulled out a bottle of scotch. Unscrewing the top, she took a long swig of the bitter liquid. Bitter like her life. At least you felt better after having a taste.

Taking another gulp, Lizzy looked out the window, which had a great view of the quad. Today a stage had been set up so that the cheerleaders could twirl their butts and the football players could flex their muscles to the max in front of their captive audience. Lizzy recognized one of the players as he ran onto the stage and waved at the assembled fans. Eric Colbert, the star kicker of the team. Muscular but lean and with a face fit for Hollywood, he was a favorite among the student body. He was the epitome of cool and the school adored him. Lizzy found it cruelly ironic that a couple of years ago he'd been her boyfriend.

They'd met at church back in elementary school, when in an abnormally-enjoyable Sunday school class they'd collaborated on a crayon picture of Jesus sending Legion into a herd of pigs. Lizzy had noticed then that Eric had a steady hand, could draw hair better than other kids their age, and the hands feet he drew looked like more than just nubs or cartoon gloves. Lizzy, who had been a growing artist even back then and was getting an eye for the work of others, was impressed. They became friends afterwards, having several "drawing dates" over the years even after the Markhams' divorce ended Lizzy's trips to church.

In junior high their drawing dates became actual dates. Lizzy fell hard for him, and she thought that Eric felt the same way. And once or twice, when Eric faked having too much homework to go to church, they went all the way in Lizzy's bedroom. It was those moments, lying in his arms, that she thought that they would always be together. It was that feeling that made her so glad they would go to Magic River together, that they could join the art club together and have lunches by the school's namesake river, and go to prom and all the things you were supposed to do with your boyfriend in high school.

But during the summer before high school, Eric had started to pull away from Lizzy. By the time they got to Magic River, he was pretending not to know her. Turned out that for some time Eric's father had been training his son for the Magic River football team, hoping to get him away from "faggoty art" and turn him into a man. And Eric had gotten onto the team this past summer as their new kicker. Part of that privilege though was that he had to give up Lizzy and art in favor of what everyone thought he should be into as a jock and as a man.

Now every time she saw him, whether it was in class, in the hallways, or even now from the art room window, Lizzy stared at him. She remembered his betrayal, and looked at him, hoping to remind him what he'd done to her, how hurt she'd been to see him become the school prince while she'd floundered as a peasant. At the same time, she asked him a silent question with her eyes: was it all worth it?

_I hate him_. Lizzy took another swig as she watched Eric leave the stage. _I hate him and I hate the rest of them too. I wish they would all die_. Taking one last gulp of scotch before hiding it in the secret compartment, Lizzy turned the radio onto a random channel and put a new canvas up on one of the easels. A little tipsy, swaying slightly to the sound of the music, she stared at the canvas, wondering what to paint today. Normally her drawings and paintings were either portraits or mythological scenes in a style influenced by the Renaissance masters and Pre-Raphaelite painters or postmodern pieces that people liked to call raw emotion splashed onto canvases. Usually when Lizzy was angry, she did the latter. Today though, she felt like Renaissance. She wanted to do a painting with people in them. People who looked like her tormentors, and what they deserved for making her life hell.

_The problem with the emotional pieces_ , she mused as she took out her sketching pencils, _is that only a few people really get them. I want to do something that everyone will understand._ Chewing on the end of her pencil, she considered what she should draw. As she thought about it, she caught a lyric from the song the radio was playing, a pop-rock ballad that Lizzy had been hearing a lot these days being played in the hallway

... _the tigers come, they tear me into pieces. This is what happens when I think of what I've done, and that your pain never ceases..._

Tigers ripping people apart...now there was an idea. And it even mirrored her own feelings. Smiling, Lizzy began to draw the outlines of people, and then the outlines of tigers. She drew and drew, and when she was done drawing she started painting. Time seemed to flow by as she did, but Lizzy didn't notice. Who cared, anyway? Her mom was on a business trip overseas for her company, so she wouldn't be home till Sunday, and her dad wouldn't get involved in her life more than necessary unless she went to church with him. And Mrs. Green and the rest of the art club would probably go home after the rally, so there was no reason they or anyone would come by the art room. She could stay all night at school and nobody would notice. Not even the janitor, who was usually drunk by seven. She'd done it before.

Lizzy let her anger and her pain and her ecstatic glee take over her as she painted and painted. As she worked, she thought she heard water flowing, at first a soft whisper but growing steadily in the background. Hmm...sounded like the Magic River on a warm summer day. The river supposedly was a gateway to the realm of the gods, according to the Native Americans who'd lived here before the Spanish kicked them out. The school had been built right next to it.

The painting was coming along well. Lizzy worked feverishly, in a world all of her own. The sound of the river was almost a roar in her ears, but she didn't mind or care how she could hear it so clearly. In fact, she kind of found it relaxing.

The pep rally was over, the sun was setting. Still Lizzy worked. Time and her surroundings didn't matter anymore. She had to paint. She must, if she didn't finish it now...something would happen that Lizzy didn't want to happen. The river was so loud now, and she could hear voices now too, voices speaking to her, telling her things. She responded to them as she worked. She liked what they were saying to her, what they were offering her. But why her? And what would it cost? Oh really? Uh-huh. Well, if you really want me to, I guess I can. What do I have to do?

It was just Lizzy, the painting, the river and the voices now. She was painting faster than she'd ever painted before, but her strokes were fine and controlled. The painting was taking shape. She could see the figures in it coming alive, the tigers were almost moving, reaching out to her with their claws. And the one there, the tigress. Oh, how Lizzy loved the fury in its roar...

Lizzy woke up in the teacher's lounge, her head aching horribly. She looked around, rubbing her eyes in the early morning light. Checking the clock, she saw it was just after six. Wow, she'd really spent the night. She'd stayed late at school before, but till the next day? That was a new record. Well, at least she'd woken up before anyone could show up and scold her. Getting up, she went to the gym and into the women's locker room, stripped, threw her clothes into the washing machines they kept for the athletes and took a quick shower. An hour and a half later her clothes were dry and she could sneak off to the nearest burger shop for breakfast. Along the way she snuck into the nurse's office for some ibuprofen, hoping to put an end to her headache.

Later, belly full and having bought some toothpaste and a toothbrush at the drugstore next to the burger shop, Lizzy walked into school with nobody the wiser that she'd gotten drunk and spent the night at school. Speaking of which, her bag and art supplies were still in the art room. Deciding to skip first period, she went to the art room. There she found her bag, lying at the easel just as she left it.

Picking up the bag, Lizzy moved to go...and then saw her new painting. She stared at it, both awed and terrified by what she'd created. She didn't remember painting it at all, but she thought it was some of the best work she'd ever created. As close to the work of the masters as she could get at her current level, the painting depicted a view of the front of the school, with several students, Eric Colbert and Helen Marsden and Bridgette Grey among them, running scared as brilliantly-painted tigers chased after them or crunched on their bones. One of them, a big tigress depicted in mid-leap about to claw Bridgette's face, had Lizzy's face.

Lizzy shivered as she stared at the painting. It looked so real, almost like the figures in it could leap out and touch her, or even maul her. The more that Lizzy stared at it, the more she expected to notice the iron smell of blood in her nostrils and the screams and roars of a massacre in her ears. It was incredible, a masterpiece.

And if Mrs. Green or anyone else saw it, they'd refer Lizzy to the school psychiatrist for counseling before burning the painting and recommending that Lizzy's art projects be more closely supervised from now on. She'd have to cover it up so that nobody would bother it. Then she'd take it home and hide it so her mother wouldn't see it and worry about her daughter's mental state. Getting a large canvas cloth from the closet, Lizzy covered the painting and left for class.

Even when she got to class though, the painting occupied her thoughts. There was something about it that bothered her, like she was forgetting more than how she'd created it. She thought she knew what it was, if only she could grasp it. And just when she thought she was on the verge of remembering, her mind would go hazy, and she'd hear the lapping of the river flowing past the school...

"Whoa, watch it!" said a voice, jarring Lizzy from her thoughts. She realized she'd come to study hall in the library on autopilot, and that she'd bumped into Bridgette and Helen while not looking where she was going. The two girls towered over her, disgust and contempt ruining their pretty and perfect faces.

"Jeez, look where you're going, you little twat." said Helen, hands on her hips. "I nearly tripped over you."

"I'm sorry." said Lizzy, not really wanting to have a scene with these girls, especially not now. At some point between hiding her new masterpiece and zoning out through her morning classes, her headache had returned with a vengeance. The last thing she needed was to have Helen and Bridgette exacerbate it. Lizzy tried to step around the two girls, but they stepped along with her, blocking her path.

"You know Helen," said Bridgette, flashing her teeth in a nasty smirk. Before Lizzy could stop her, Bridgette had looped one overly-tanned arm around Lizzy's pale arm. "This artist girl has been begging for a makeover since freshman year."

"I think you're right, Bridge." said Helen, looping her arm around Lizzy's other arm. "She's got to get out into the world and screw some boys someday. Might as well make her a little bit presentable."

"What the hell are you—?" Before Lizzy could finish her sentence though, her arms had been twisted behind her back and she was being carted out of the library by the two cheerleaders. As Bridgette and Helen led her down the halls, the rest of the cheerleading team appeared formed a protective circle around them, mischievous sneers on their faces. Lizzy felt a sense of dread explode in her. The cheerleaders had something horrible planned for her. But what?

"Oh stop struggling." said Helen as Lizzy tried to break their hold on her. Then, to Lizzy's surprise, Helen sucker-punched her in the stomach. The wind went out of her as she bent over, bile rising up into her mouth. "We're doing you a favor. You'll thank us one day."

Lizzy looked around, trying to find someone to help her, but the break between classes was ending, and all the teachers and most of the students were already in their classrooms. There was no one to come to her rescue. She doubted anyone would anyway. For the past three years, no one had come to her aid, not once. Lizzy was as alone as ever. She tried struggling again, even as Bridgette gave her a punch to the stomach, but the girls only held onto her tighter.

One of the cheerleaders opened a door and Lizzy was thrown in, falling down a set of stairs, landing hard on concrete floor, the other girls laughing up above. They thought this was funny? She'd be lucky if she came away with only bruised ribs!

The girls came down the stairs, their feet making light slapping noises against the wood steps and concrete floor. "Girls, welcome to the first ever basement make-over." said Bridgette. "Our mission: take this ugly little turd and make her over." The girls tittered as they gathered around her.

Lizzy lifted herself off the ground and looked around. Like Bridgette had said, they were in the basement, the walls lined with boxes and shelves. The girls crowded around her, holding bottles of paint and paint brushes. Helen uncapped a black bottle of paint and spurted some on Lizzy's head. "Let's begin." she said.

"Stop it!" said a new voice. Lizzy looked up, rubbing paint out of her eyes and saw Eric Colbert rushing down the stairs two at a time. To Lizzy's surprise he pushed through the ring of girls, bent down and helped her into a sitting position. "You alright?" he asked, concern and anger and—was that shame?—on his face.

"What the hell are you doing here?" asked one of the cheerleaders in disbelief. It was the same question that was going through Lizzy's head, and judging by the faces of the other girls, through theirs.

Eric stood up, glaring at each and every cheerleader in turn. Some of them actually shrank away from him, which Lizzy thought was extraordinary: she'd thought nothing but pimples actually scared these narcissistic twats. Then he growled, "What the fuck is going on down here?"

For a moment, no one said anything. Then Bridgette said, "I-It was just a joke, Eric. Just a prank."

"Doesn't look all that funny to me." he said.

"W-Well, what do you care?" asked another cheerleader, Janet Something-or-Other. "She's just a little bitch. We're doing her a favor by showing her some attention."

"That's not what you're doing at all!" Eric shouted suddenly, startling the girls. Then he bent down again and, to Lizzy's surprise, offered her a hand. "Come on, let's get you out of here."

For a moment, Lizzy was so shocked she nearly took Eric's hand. In fact she reached for it. But then she remembered whose hand it was. Eric. Eric Colbert. The bastard who'd loved her and left her. The man she'd come to hate.

Lizzy slapped away his hand. "I don't need your help." she said.

"I deserve that." Eric said. "But just for now, let me help you."

"Don't you have to bone one of these girls later?" Lizzy asked pointedly. "Just leave me alone!" She pushed him away, and for a moment her vision became filmy and yellow and her fingernails looked like claws. But then her vision and fingernails returned to normal as Eric said, "I love you."

Lizzy blinked. The cheerleaders gasped and whispered among themselves. Eric continued, "Lizzy, I love you. I never stopped loving you. I know I left you hurt and abandoned—"

"That's an understatement."

"—And I deserve your hate." Eric continued. "Honestly, I should never have bowed to the pressure. I've been miserable and regretting it ever since. And I'm tired of it all. I'm tired of lying to myself, I'm tired of lying to everyone else, and I'm done seeing you hurt every day. So I'm going to make it up to you every day until you forgive me, starting now." Eric turned to Helen and Bridgette. "You guys should get the hell out of here. Leave now and we can forget all about this—Eeyagh!"

Eric fell over, clutching at his face. Lizzy looked from him to Helen, who was holding a small, red spray bottle in her hands. Where that bottle had come from, Lizzy didn't know, but from the smell she knew it was pepper spray. "Pathetic." she said. "Turns out he's into little girls. Well, at least he isn't a fag. So, where were we?"

Lizzy saw Eric fall, and felt anger bubble up in her, growing in her small frame until she felt like she would burst like a volcano. The sound of the Magic River filled her ears again, and as it did her memories of last night returned to her. She remembered painting the canvas, feeding her anger and pain and sorrow into the brush strokes. She remembered something answering her anger, something from beyond this world. It had admired her art and recognized her anger, not unlike the anger of its adherents when the Spanish came. And then it had offered her something too good to pass up.

Lizzy stood up, her every breath sounding like a deep, angry growl. The cheerleaders stared at her before backing away, terrified looks on their faces. A few were even crying. Lizzy realized they were afraid of her. Something was making them afraid of her. And she loved it.

"Lizzy?" said Bridgette, her voice trembling. It was the first time Lizzy had ever heard Bridgette say her name. "What's happening to you?"

Lizzy looked at herself. Her skin was dark and tawny, stripes had appeared on her arms and legs, claws had grown on her fingers, and sharp canines had sprouted in her mouth. When she looked back at the cheerleaders, she saw them through a yellow film, focusing on their faces, their necks. God, she could smell their fear, and the sweet smell of blood just underneath their skin. Lizzy flared her nostrils and growled, her tail swishing excitedly in the air.

Before she'd even leaped, one of the cheerleaders screamed. With a roar, Lizzy lunged and knocked Helen to the ground. With a snarl, she opened her mouth wide and bit into Helen's neck. A wave of red hit Lizzy's face, and she heard the paint bottle rolling across the floor. Helen gasped for air, and then her body went limp. She was dead.

Lizzy let go of Helen's neck and turned to face the other cheerleaders. What did they see before them? Lizzy knew: she'd seen it reflected in Bridgette's eyes before she'd killed her. Something that was part girl, part tigress. And one that was angry as hell. Lizzy grinned as the cheerleaders whimpered and backed away in fright. So this is what it felt like to pick on those weaker than you. It was kind of exhilarating. And these girls, the same ones who had made her life and the lives of others miserable day after day, actually deserved what was coming to them. They'd made her do this.

Opening her mouth, Lizzy uttered one purr-filled word: "Run."

It was almost as if they'd been waiting for permission. The cheerleaders turned around and ran, screaming as they pushed at each other to make it up the stairs, Bridgette in the lead. Picking out one near the back, Lizzy grabbed her legs and pulled her down the stairs with a laugh. The girl, either named Patty or Penny, screamed as Lizzy bit into her chest, clawing through clothing and skin, breaking bones. With a final plunge, Lizzy dove in and tore out the girl's heart out with her jaws, holding it gingerly in her teeth before chomping down. The sweet meat melted on her tongue as she chewed, blood rushing down in her throat in little rivulets.

The other cheerleaders had gone. Lizzy would pursue them in a minute. But first, she had to take care of Eric. Turning around, she saw he'd fainted where he fell, his hands lying limply on his face. Carefully, Lizzy exposed Eric's throat, his Adam's apple sticking out like a sore thumb. She could kill him so easily now. She could get her revenge on him abandoning her to the wolves while he pretended to be one of their pack. All it would take was just one claw or tooth and—

"Lizzy." Eric whispered. Lizzy blinked as Eric moaned and opened his eyes, which were red and irritated. He smiled at her, tears spilling out of his eyes. "You're alright. Look at you, you're beautiful."

For a moment, Lizzy felt surprised. Then she slashed Eric's face with her claws, Eric screamed, holding his face in his hands as he sat up. Blood seeped through his fingers as he turned to look at her, tears mixing with his blood. Between his fingers Lizzy saw that she'd torn open an eyeball with her claws. "Lizzy." said Eric, his words slurring.

"Apology accepted." said Lizzy. "Not that you deserve it."

"Lizzy." said Eric again. "Lizzy—"

"Oh, stop saying my name." said Lizzy, growling in annoyance. "You're not good enough to say it."

"But I—"

"But nothing." said Lizzy. "I wanted to kill you. But instead I just ruined your pretty face. Now every time you look in a mirror or somebody looks at you, they'll realize how much you hurt me."

"It was wrong of me." said Eric. "Please Lizzy...argh!"

"You should probably let a doctor look at that." said Lizzy, starting up the stairs on all fours as Eric fell over and succumbed to the pain. At the top of the steps though, she stopped and looked down at the man she'd once loved. "Goodbye Eric." she said, pushing open the door and padding into the first floor hallway.

There Lizzy saw people coming out of classrooms to see what all the fuss was about, the fuss being several crying cheerleaders huddled in a group, one relying on two of her comrades to stand as she held a leg off the ground. The stares quickly turned towards Lizzy as she padded down the hallway, her claws making clicking noises against the linoleum tiles. The cheerleaders whimpered as Lizzy approached.

"How do you like my new look?" asked Lizzy, licking her lips. She was more tigress than girl now, seeing everyone as potential prey or predator. She growled. "You know, I feel like I'm in a certain Stephen King novel." she continued, jumping towards a group of people standing close by, causing several loud screams. "The girl nobody gave a shit about gets to shit on everyone else for once. Only this time, I don't think she's going to die at the end."

Suddenly there was a blast of pain from the top of Lizzy's head and she slumped to the ground, her head aching. Looking behind her, she saw a couple of jocks from the different sports teams, along with a few of the school's delinquents and one or two teachers standing behind her. One of the jocks, a guy named Percy Ross who played with Eric on the football team, was holding a wooden mop from the base. Lizzy growled as they circled around her menacingly.

"Wow, you're even freakier than you were before, Markham." said Percy, slapping the mop handle against his palm. "You turned into a freaking wild animal! Well, there's only one thing to do about wild animals."

To their surprise, Lizzy smiled. So these guys wanted to kill her. Maybe they didn't know what she was or how she'd become that way, but they realized that she was dangerous and they'd decided they were going to handle her. Well, she could let them think they had a chance against her. Willing herself back into a human girl, she looked up at them with what she hoped was her most beseeching face.

"Please don't hurt me!" she said beseechingly, looking at the teachers especially. She recognized both of them, Mr. Harolds of the Math Department and Mr. Forshey from the French Department among them. She'd had both of them in previous years. Maybe they might feel a bit sympathetic to her. "I-I didn't know what I was doing! I swear! I just turned into that...thing!"

The teachers' faces remained impassive. "You know, I always thought you were a weird little bitch." said Mr. Forshey suddenly. "Bright enough, but your bad attitude and the way you rubbed everyone wrong. I guess the tails and the stripes are just more proof of what a freaky little shit you are. No wonder nobody likes you."

Lizzy stared at them in surprise as Mr. Harolds nodded in ascent and the other boys just chuckled. And here she'd thought that the teachers were just ignorant about the shit that went on around here, but apparently some of them were as bad as the students. Well, she'd kill them too. Now it was time to really put her plan into action.

Launching herself at Percy, she grabbed the front of his jeans and buried her face in his crotch. "Please!" she sobbed, leaking crocodile tears. "I'll do anything! Just don't kill me! Please don't hurt me!"

"Hey, you can offer to suck my load, I wouldn't help you." said Percy, handing the mop to the guy next to him as he tried unsuccessfully to push Lizzy away. "Besides, I'm not into kids."

At that moment Lizzy stopped crying and grinned. "What load?" she asked, her canines growing long and sharp. With a roar she bit into Percy's crotch, tearing away his penis and scrotum. Percy screamed and fell over as Lizzy spat out the disgusting mixture of flesh, liquid, and cloth. "Little bitches like you don't have loads." she said with a laugh, turning to one of the boys as he made a lunge at her. With another roar she pounced on him and tore open his throat before moving onto the next one, and then from there moving onto Mr. Harolds, who had already started running.

And by that point, people were running and screaming around her, trying to get away as she tore into her victims. Lizzy let them run. Like any good tigress, she knew that half the fun was in the chase.

Lizzy danced down the deserted hallways, her feet slapping against the ground as she jumped and pranced and twirled. At some point during the massacre, between the fire alarm being pulled and her taking off her blood-stained clothes so she could move easier, the song Lizzy had been listening to when she'd begun painting yesterday had risen up in her head, the lyrics and music somehow all in her head. Now that the killing was over and she'd reverted back to human form, she danced to it, a bloodstained vision in her underwear and trainer bra as she made her way to the art room.

... the tigers come, they tear me into pieces. This is what happens when I think of what I've done, and that your pain never ceases. Oh God, what am I supposed to do? I just realized what I had with you. Now that we're apart, the apologies I write have no end and no start...

It wasn't the best tune, but it definitely worked for Lizzy. She could even call it Lizzy Markham's Song, especially since she didn't know its title.

She'd probably end up in jail or maybe even some government lab if they caught her. Of course, that was if they caught her, and she had no intention of letting that happen. She was going to run. Where she'd go, she had no idea, but she planned to take her prized painting with her. It was her greatest masterpiece and she had no intention of leaving it behind so that it could get put into a museum she couldn't visit, or maybe in a police evidence room where no one would ever see it. No, she'd grab it and then high-tail it out of here to wherever she could go.

As she entered the art room, she was surprised to find Bridgette Marsden there, crying in the arms of Mrs. Green. Both looked up in terror as Lizzy walked in, barely glancing in their direction. After so much revenge, she'd had enough bloodshed and mayhem for one day. All she cared about right now was her painting.

As Lizzy crossed the room, Bridgette pointed a trembling finger at her, eyes alive with anger and terror. "You!" she shouted, her voice shrill. "You did this! You did all this!"

"That's stating the obvious." said Lizzy as Mrs. Green tried to shush Bridgette. "But hey, look on the bright side: it wasn't total random carnage. I only killed the bullies and nobody else. Okay, maybe one or two others, but they all stood by when I needed them most, so no big loss."

"Lizzy, how can you say that?" asked Mrs. Green, her voice high-pitched and alarmed. "They were your classmates!"

"And I was only meeting them on their level and bridging a gap." said Lizzy sardonically, turning the easel her painting was situated on towards Bridgette and Mrs. Green. Pulling the canvas cloth off, she smiled as they gasped in horror at what she'd created. She stroked the canvas's frame and felt something like electricity coming off it. The painting was her power source. She knew it as if she'd always known it. The painting was what gave her the power to change. All the more reason for her to take it with her when she left. "You see Mrs. Green, humans are greater than animals when it comes to their capacity for bloodshed and horrors. And I've been treated like I was less than human for so long, that I'm surprised anyone else is surprised that I turned into an actual animal, let alone that I decided to get revenge. After all, don't all creatures, if they're cornered and tormented enough, fight back with enough ferocity to survive?"

Reaching into the cabinet, Lizzy slid back the sliding panel and pulled out the bottle of scotch. Mrs. Green gasped as Lizzy unscrewed the top and took a long sip. "Did you know about the secret liquor cabinet here?" asked Lizzy, feeling more inebriated than she should have from that one sip, and much more quickly too. Was that because she was now something other than human, or was that because she was already pretty drunk from her rampage earlier? It didn't matter. Taking another sip and screwing the cap back on, Lizzy wiped her mouth and said, "Well, I should be going now. I only came for the painting after all, so—Bridgette, no!"

As Lizzy spoke, Bridgette broke away from Mrs. Green and swiped the painting off its easel. Lizzy dropped the bottle of scotch and began to change into her tigress form, but it was too late: Bridgette had grabbed a box-cutter from one of the supply bins and was about to stab the painting. Lizzy lunged, fear and desperation mixing within her as Bridgette brought the box-cutter down in an arc towards the painting.

There was a burst of green light and Lizzy was thrown backwards. Slamming into the wall, Lizzy slid to the floor, feeling woozy and sick. Slowly she stood up, thinking, _Something's wrong._ And then she saw Bridgette, standing triumphantly with the box cutter in one hand and the painting in the other, the latter marred by a huge diagonal gash that nearly ripped it in two.

"No." Lizzy whispered. She tried to change but couldn't. She had no power.

Bridgette grinned. "What's wrong?" she said. "You talked a big talk before. Lost your claws?"

"How did you—?" But Bridgette threw the painting aside and ran at Lizzy, punching her in the nose. Lizzy fell to the ground, blood spurting from her nose. With a wild scream, Bridgette kicked Lizzy in the stomach. Then she kicked her again. And again. She kept kicking till Lizzy threw up crimson vomit. Coughing, she didn't resist as Bridgette lifted her up into a sitting position, hand pressed against Lizzy's neck.

"You sick little bitch." Bridgette hissed, tightening her grip on Lizzy's neck. "When I get rid of you, everyone will see me as a hero. They'll fucking love me for getting rid of you! There will be TV interviews, books, maybe even a movie! And I'll always be portrayed as the sweet hero who lost her best friends to a monster outsider girl and stopped her before she could kill anyone else. How do you like that, you little cunt? How do you like _that_!"

Lizzy stared beyond Bridgette's twisted face to Mrs. Green, whose face was turned away from what was happening, a hand over her eyes. So even Mrs. Green, the one teacher that had actually cared about her, was abandoning her. _Dammit_. thought Lizzy. _I just...wanted a day where I didn't have to feel like life wasn't worth living._

The pressure on Lizzy's neck tightened. Her lungs cried out for oxygen. She made a half-hearted attempt to pry Bridgette's fingers off, but still the bigger girl held on tight. Darkness was creeping into the edges of her vision. She was going to faint soon.

And then Lizzy saw a green light behind Bridgette. The bigger girl noticed something too, because she looked behind her, allowing Lizzy to see what was going on. It was the painting! Green light was pouring out of the tear, which seemed to be growing smaller with every passing second. And as it did, Lizzy felt her strength returning in folds. While Bridgette was distracted, she reached up and pulled the girl's hand away from her throat. It went like lifting a tissue out of a box.

Bridgette stared at her hand, and then at Lizzy as she began to change. Before she could react, Lizzy kicked her in the side, sending her flying into the window and then down to the ground. With a groan, Bridgette lifted herself off the ground, and saw Lizzy waiting there, tail swishing excitedly.

"You know Bridgette," said Lizzy, padding on all fours towards the fallen girl, "I remember the first time we met."

"P-Please," said Bridgette, scrambling up and against the window. She glanced towards the door, but Lizzy leapt in her way. Bridgette screamed and stumbled backwards into the corner. "Please don't hurt me." she sobbed. "Please! Please don't hurt me."

"It was at the mixer freshman year." Lizzy continued, standing up and closing the gap between them. "I'd gone to get some punch but I tripped and spilled some on your new dress. It was only a minor stain, but you got so pissed off about it. And by then, you and Helen had formed your little clique of pretty bimbos. So in the spirit of group-bonding, you smooshed a slice of chocolate cake onto the front my own new dress, the one my mother got me to help me get over my break-up, and then pushed me into the men's room! I was known as Poop Stain Lizzy for the rest of the semester!"

"I'm sorry." sniveled Bridgette. "I didn't think—"

"That's right, you didn't think." Lizzy cut in, growling. "You never considered that I was a person or that I had feelings. All you cared about was making me miserable so you could feel good and superior. Well, guess what? I'm no longer a person and I have no human feelings."

"I'm sorry." Bridgette repeated. "W-We can be friends. G-G-Good friends. I'll never hurt you again."

By this time Lizzy was standing right in front of her in the corner. Lizzy smirked. "If you're serious about being friends, then bend down so I can talk to you eye-to-eye." she said, looking up at the cheerleaders perfectly-sculpted chin. When Bridgette only whimpered, Lizzy said more forcefully, "Do it! Now!"

Bridgette sank down to her knees, making her actually shorter than Lizzy. Leaning in, Lizzy whispered, "Let's be the best of friends." And then with her sharp canines she planted a kiss on Helen's mouth.

Tearing off her lips as Bridgette gave a gurgling scream, Lizzy drove her hand into her ribcage from underneath, stabbing into her chest cavity with her sharp claws. Bridgette's cries were cut off with an airless gasp, the girl's eyes rolling up to look at Lizzy, who only smiled as she swallowed Bridgette's lips. "Thanks, friend." she said, lifting Bridgette off the ground and over her shoulder as if she were a piece of garbage. Bridgette's body crashed into the garbage can, her legs pointing towards the sky. There was the sound of a long, final gasp and all was silent.

Grabbing some paper towels from the dispenser, Lizzy wiped the fresh blood off her, not wanting to get her painting dirty. Then, ignoring the fainted Mrs. Green at the other end of the room, she picked up her newly-repaired painting and heard the sound of the river again. Through it she could hear the voice of her patron, the one who had bequeathed her power to her. He was giving her an invitation.

Excited by the offer, Lizzy opened the window and jumped out into the quad, landing on her feet before sprinting off towards the Magic River. As she ran, her form became larger and more feline, until she looked more like a tiger than a girl, her underwear and bra breaking off when they couldn't contain the creature she'd become. She burst through the front doors of the school, startling the assembled crowd of students, teachers, parents and first responders. With a joyous roar she leapt over a bench, flew across the baseball and football fields, and came upon the river, where her patron was waiting to escort her to her new home. With a leap, she plunged into the river, and was pleasantly surprised to see that it wasn't really a river at all.

***

Eric Colbert stood in his bedroom, painting. For the first three months after he'd left the hospital, that was all he'd really been doing, painting. At first it had been hard, especially since he was now blind in one eye in addition to being three years out of practice. But with too much time on his hands and no sports to distract him, plus countless hours of therapy at the hospital, learning to cope with his vision and his inner turmoil, he was regaining his previous skill, as well as his joy and love of art.

It was his one consolation in life now. Since the Tigress Lizzy Massacre, as Lizzy's transformation had become called, a lot had changed in Eric's life. Most of his friends were dead now. That made Eric feel guilty, not only because he'd survived, but because he wasn't really sure they'd been real friends, seeing as he'd lied to them a lot about liking sports (which he only did to get his dad off his back) and felt like most of the time he'd been pretending to be someone in front of them. Standing there at the mass funeral for the victims, among all those grieving parents, he'd felt a little like a con man, a traitor to the people who'd died while he'd lived along with the lies he'd told himself and others to stick with the cool crowd.

Lizzy was famous now, though not for her art as Eric had always thought she'd be. The official story of the massacre that the police and press had been putting out was that Lizzy had somehow gotten herself a tiger and trained it to attack on her command, and then had brought it to school in some sort of twisted revenge plot. Eric hadn't been surprised that nobody believed she'd turned into an actual tiger, as he'd seen her do it. What did surprise him was that people who had actually seen her change were now saying that they'd seen Lizzy egging a tiger on, how they refused to believe in what their eyes had seen. Maybe they just wanted the explanation that was easier to comprehend, rather than the one Eric knew to be true and still couldn't make heads or tails of.

For Eric though, the biggest change of all was that he could no longer play sports. For years, his dad had been trying to make his son into some big sports star, and now Eric's bad eye had made that impossible. Now while Eric spent time in his room painting and waiting till he started at a new school next semester (obviously Magic River was closed until further notice, and might never open again), Eric's dad went to work and came home and barely looked at his son when they were in the same room together. It hurt Eric that this was their new reality now that he couldn't play sports, but Eric's dad would have to get used to it. In the meantime, Eric had plenty of time and a lot of new art supplies, and all too happy to make use of both. In fact, he was quickly building a portfolio, one that an art gallery in Springfield had expressed some interest in. Maybe that was because he was a survivor of the massacre and a former friend of Lizzy Markham, or maybe he was actually good enough to get featured in a gallery. In either case, Eric was seriously considering the offer for a show of his work, and he was working on a collection of pieces he'd be proud to see displayed in a gallery.

At the moment, Eric was working on the last piece in his _Story of The Idolater_ series. In the first piece, entitled _Genesis_ , two children sit around a table with crayons and paper, drawing contentedly while watched over by heavenly cherubs. It was obvious who those kids were supposed to represent. In the second piece, entitled _Divine Love_ , the little boy has grown up into a fine Adonis and the little girl has become a beautiful angel, wings and all, holding each other on top of a cloud while surrounded by golden light, staring into each other's eyes with all the love in the world.

But the third piece took a darker tone. In _Heresy of Peor_ , the Adonis has left his angel to worship with the masses at the base of an idol that somewhat resembles a giant phallus. The angel looks on sadly, reaching out for her lover as he turns her back on her. As she watches on in tears, a black force arises out of a river behind her, surrounding her and changing her, making her look monstrous. Tiger-like.

Where it picks off in _Divine Retribution_ , the angel has become a demon of vengeance, a human tiger with wings and a flaming sword. Before her the phallus idol has been destroyed, the worshippers have been slain, and the Adonis, crouched in the forefront, receives the worst of the flaming sword as he is punished by his former lover for his infidelity.

And now Eric is working on the fifth piece, which he thinks he will call _Fall of Sodom_. In it, the Adonis has become a leper and stands among the dead and the rubble of the phallus-statue. He looks up sadly at the back of his angel, who is now flying away from him and far away, forever changed into a monster because of his sin. And all he can do is cry.

Looking at it now, Eric felt like crying, even though he'd done enough crying over his sorry state and over what he'd done to Lizzy these past few months. He couldn't keep dwelling on it for the rest of his life. Instead, he would move forward. He'd try to make himself a better person as well as a better painter, using his painting to take on problems that everyone else ignored. And maybe, just maybe, if he was lucky, he'd see Lizzy again, and give her the apology she deserved.

Eric started painting again. And as he did, he thought he heard, behind the radio and the brushstrokes, the sound of a river flowing behind him.

*****

If you enjoyed this story you might like to read more of Ramie's writing. Such as...

Snake

by Ramie Ungar

How far will you go for love and revenge? When a young man's girlfriend is kidnapped by the powerful Camerlengo Family, he becomes the Snake, a serial killer who takes his methods from the worst of the Russian mafia. Tracking down members of the Camerlengo Family one by one for clues, the Snake will go to any lengths to see the love of his life again...even if it means becoming a worse monster than any of the monsters he is hunting.

*****

**From a young age, Rami Ungar has known** that he's wanted to write, and from his teens he's known that he's wanted to write scary stories. A graduate of The Ohio State University, Rami writes and blogs nearly every day. He's published two novels, the sci-fi epic Reborn City and the terrifying thriller Snake, as well as a collection of short stories, The Quiet Game: Five Tales To Chill Your Bones. In addition, he's written and published many short stories, and is constantly working on something new.

In addition to blogging and writing and publishing horror fiction, Rami is also a writer and administrator for the blog Self-Published Authors Helping Other Authors and moonlights writing letters From The Voice of Common Sense. His bucket list includes collecting lots of weird and nerdy stuff, meeting his idols Stephen King and Anne Rice, and going ghost-hunting with the Ghost Adventures Crew.

But before he can get to any of that, he's got a lot of projects to get through, and very little time to do it. Wish him luck!

**Blog** : <https://ramiungarthewriter.wordpress.com/>

#  Through the Willow Tree

By DM Yates

Ginger paused raking the autumn leaves. She was sure she heard the sounds again. Whisperings coming from within the old Willow tree. She listened carefully, but there was only silence from within. A cool gust of wind whipped across the yard on this overcast day and she shivered.

October had arrived. Pumpkin lanterns that hung from the house to the trees swayed in the wind. The last of the pumpkins and squash from the garden lay on the dirt among the dying corn stalks and wilted sunflower plants.

As for the Willow tree, its branches were barren, but that was normal for this time of year. It was, after all, simply a tree that reacted to the seasons. Eerie to behold in the autumn, but just a tree. Except that it had begun to emit strange word-like babblings, but it made no sense.

Ginger had enjoyed the pink and white buds on the tree in the spring and the branches filled with long green leaves in the summer, making a perfect hide-out, but now, well, there was just something creepy about it.

_There it is again. Those whisperings._ She put her ear against the trunk. There was a hum that she couldn't identify. _Maybe it's infested with bugs like dad said. Ew._

She had asked her parents, her brothers, and her sisters. No one else heard anything except her. Her younger brothers and sisters teased her about it, but she didn't care. She just ignored them. Her mother told her not to put her ear to the trunk or she might get a tree disease. Her father said it was insects at work, at which time her mother told him to drill a hole in the tree and check. Ginger begged him not to, explaining that she probably hadn't heard anything at all. Her mother said she had known that all along, that Ginger was all about attention.

Ginger's family had moved to this rundown neighborhood just last spring because of her dad's new job that paid a lot less money. They took up residence in an old-fashioned, spacious two-story Tudor that sat on two acres of property. It was well-priced, no doubt because it had been abandoned by a long list of previous owners, who had disappeared without a trace.

It was a spooky house, complete with a spider infested basement and a large attic, home to a family of oversized magpies. After her father's first and only failed attempt last week to chase the large birds out, he locked the attic door and announced they'd have to wait for animal control. The family was okay with that since their father emerged bleeding from long scratches and deep bites.

During the day and especially at night, sinister disturbances from the walls, from the ceilings, and from the closets echoed through the old house. Ginger didn't like being alone. That's where Chad came in handy. He loved the curious creaking and banging, investigating every unusual noise.

On Ginger's first day at the local community college, Chad had approached her and told her how he lived behind them with his grandparents. They quickly became friends, and he spent his free time at her home. Chad was stocky, with light brown hair and peach colored skin. His favorite hobby was reading and his golden brown eyes sparkled whenever he talked about the latest book he'd finished.

Connor, Ginger's boyfriend, was the complete opposite. Connor didn't like visiting their strange residence with the bizarre noises. Outgoing and handsome, tall and muscular with a very loud voice, he was too active to have time to read. He enjoyed sports of any kind and Ginger tagged along to cheer for him. She met Connor at the movie theater where they both worked. He, full-time maintenance and she, part-time serving popcorn and drinks. She hadn't seen him in a week since she hadn't been to work. Curious. She wondered why she hadn't been to work. She didn't remember taking time off.

After raking when Chad dropped by, Ginger asked him, "Do you hear anything...strange coming from this tree?"

They often sat under that very tree completing their homework assignments. With its long hanging branches, it hid them from the world.

"Almost like whisperings?" he asked.

"You do hear it?"

"Yeah. I didn't say anything because I didn't want you to think I'm crazy. It started a few days ago."

"What do you think it is?"

"I don't know, but it's weird. Like some kind of talking."

"I'm so glad you hear it too."

"What's the matter? Doesn't Junior believe you?"

"Don't call him that. He gets mad when people do. His name's Connor."

"That's why I do it. I like to make him mad."

"You just don't like him."

"Nope. I grew up with him. He's been a bully his whole life and he'll always be one. You deserve better."

"He's nice to me."

Chad snickered. "You're his slave. 'Do this. Do that. Buy me beer. We're going to the movies.' He never asks; he just demands."

"I like him. And he's gorgeous."

"In a rugged, intimidating sort of way."

"You're just jealous of how strong he is."

"Nope. I'm jealous because he has you. You and I are meant to be together. Someday you'll see that."

"Please don't talk about this again. You're just my friend."

"For now, I'll take that, but someday I'll marry you."

Ginger smirked. "Figure out the puzzle to this tree and I'll marry you the day you solve it."

Chad smiled widely. "It's a deal. I think a lot about this tree and its weird sounds. I've come back late at night and walked around it. I've climbed it more than once. I've poked and prodded it. I've even viewed it through a magnifying glass. There's something different about it."

"Did you put your ear up to it?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Mom says you'll catch some tree disease."

They burst out laughing.

"Your mom's a little crazy. Probably from having so many kids."

"I'm surprised my younger siblings haven't made me crazy."

"Who says you're not?" He nudged her and she shoved him back. He gazed up into the tree. "You ever notice how birds sit quietly, like they're being reverent or something?"

Ginger nodded. She laid back and looked up at the tree. The wind whistled through the long thin branches and they swayed in response. Ginger felt chilled again.

Chad laid down too. "Don't let Junior see us like this."

"I haven't seen him this week, and besides, I've already told him you're my friend."

"So that's why he calls me Chadlene."

"He's just teasing you. I'll talk to him about it."

"No, you won't. It doesn't bother me. Besides, I'd rather he call me Chadlene than pound on me."

"He's not mean like that."

"Ask anyone who's grown up with him. He likes to be rough."

"Well, he's never been rough with me."

"Good thing, because then I'd be pounding on him."

"Why, what a nice thing to say."

"Gotta protect my future wife."

"Chad!"

"A deal's a deal. Hey, meet me out here tonight after midnight. We'll see if we can figure this tree out."

"Okay. I'm game."

After midnight, Ginger stood uneasily near the tree. The yard was surrounded in darkness and shadows, and only the moon and stars gave any light. Nothing stirred except the wind that rustled through the shrubbery. Even the crickets were silent. In the darkness, she thought she saw ghost-like apparitions and she quivered. A cat yowled, startling her. Its yowl sounded like "Go away." She stepped cautiously closer to the tree and listened without putting her ear on it. She heard nothing, but something brushed against her shoulder.

At that exact moment, Chad grabbed her sides and shouted, "Boo."

Ginger jumped in fright, then realized it was Chad. She turned and smacked his arm. "Don't do that," she whispered.

"Why not?" he whispered back. "Did I scare the tree? Why are we whispering? Are you afraid the tree will hear us?"

"If you're not taking this seriously, go home." Ginger pointed to his yard.

"Hey, we had a deal. I'm going to solve this tree's mystery tonight, and just to show you I'm serious, here's your engagement ring." He put an adjustable prize ring in her palm. "Got it free in a box of your cereal. It was a lot of work digging it out and then I had to fight your younger brother for it."

"Didn't you go home today?"

"Spent the day playing games with your brothers."

"Fine. Solve it." She stuck the ring on her finger.

Chad grinned. "It looks good on your finger." He walked carefully around the tree, trailing his hand along its bark. He pulled on a couple of branches. He tapped the roots with his foot. He kicked at the dirt, then slid his shoe across, piling the dirt to one side.

The whisperings began again, as if they'd heard Chad's tapping. He and Ginger gawked at each other, surprised. He followed the sound.

"Here," he said. "It's coming from between these two enormous roots."

"What is that?" she asked.

"I think it's a knot in one of the roots that's below ground." He felt around the knot then tugged. The knot was attached to a trap door that he had pulled open. "Well, I'll be. Guess we're getting married."

"Let me see." Ginger peered down the hole. "It's too dark to see anything. Did you bring a flashlight?"

Chad snorted. "Sure did. It's with all this gear I brought."

"You're such a smart-aleck. You could have just said no."

"I could have, but I didn't."

"Where do you think this trap door goes?"

"Nowhere. It's just an unused root cellar, where previous owners stored stuff. This old place has had lots of owners. Funny thing is, they've all disappeared."

"Don't try to scare me."

"It's true. One day they're here and the next day, poof."

"I'm going down."

"Don't be stupid. It might be crawling with all kinds of creatures, like snakes and spiders."

"So you don't want to marry me?" Ginger pretended to pout.

Chad rolled his eyes. "Fine, but I go first."

"We'll go at the same time. I'll sit on your lap."

"I'm liking this quest already." Chad sat down and Ginger snuggled into his lap. "Ready?" he asked.

He gave a push and they proceeded down slowly. The dirt was smooth and the ride began to wend faster, twisting and turning. Ginger covered her face with her hands as they glided through cobwebs. Chad put his hands down to control the speed, but they scraped along the ground and small twigs and pebbles cut into his palms. Next, he tried with his feet, pushing down with all his might. Still they sped along. He wrapped his arms around Ginger's waist to keep her next to him.

"Make us stop," begged Ginger, her voice muffled by her hands over her mouth.

"I've tried," said Chad.

The drop became steeper and narrower and they slid along even faster. Ginger screamed. Chad braced against the side roots, but suddenly they circled around and around several times.

"I'm getting dizzy." She moaned and clutched Chad's arms.

The chute shot straight up and ended abruptly in the air. They fell rapidly and landed hard on the ground with a loud "oof" from Chad. Ginger didn't move nor did she release his arms.

Chad pried her hands off. "Look at this place." He got up.

She opened her eyes and he helped her up.

"We have to be miles below the surface." He motioned above them to an orange sky.

"How can something underground have a sky?"

"It shouldn't, but it does. It's like we're in another world."

"Did you get hurt when we landed?"

"Good thing my rump's well padded." He glanced around. "I don't see a way back. The chute is a good ways off the ground."

"Where are we?" asked Ginger.

They were standing on rust colored soft sand in an open field. Large trees with boughs that constantly swirled dotted the landscape. Its brown foliage tinkled in the same soft breeze that whirled the sand around their feet. High rough mocha colored cliffs surrounded the area on three sides.

"I've never seen trees like that. Don't touch anything." Chad walked slowly around.

"What are you doing?"

"Searching for an exit or a door." He ran his hand along the cliffs.

"You said to not touch anything."

"I meant, don't damage anything or take something." He continued along, but stepped in a thick yellow puddle of muck that had just appeared. With a slurping, it began to pull his right leg under.

Ginger raced to him and tugged.

"It's like a quagmire." Chad struggled to free himself.

With a loud echoing pop, his leg came free. The goop ran down his leg and found its way back to the puddle.

"It's alive," said Chad.

"But it's just mud."

"It doesn't mean that it's not alive. Watch out for more of them."

With a sizzle, another appeared next to Ginger.

"Come on." Chad grabbed her hand and raced ahead, jumping over or dashing away from more bogs. As they ran, they could see a river ahead.

"Aim for the bridge." He towed her along towards it.

"You're going too fast. I'm not a runner."

When they reached the wooden garden bridge, Chad held her back and stepped carefully on it. He waited. Ginger caught her breath. When nothing happened, he let her on.

"Where does this lead?" she asked.

"I have no idea, but keep your eyes open. We're not across it yet."

In the sparkling blue river, hefty brightly colored fish swam and vaulted out of the water and back in.

"They're so pretty and the river's so peaceful." Ginger leaned over the railing.

"Don't do that," warned Chad.

But as soon as he spoke, a monstrous fish leapt within inches of her face. Only it wasn't a normal fish. It had the visage of a man, a very angry man with sharp pointed teeth, and it lunged at Ginger with its mouth opened wide. Chad pushed her out of the way just in time and punched the fish. It squirted goop at him in retaliation as it fell backwards into the water, but Chad moved away and the liquid hit the deck, burning a hole through it.

Chad grasped Ginger's hand and raced across the bridge while more of the man-fish soared out of the water chomping at them. Ginger ducked while Chad punched with his free hand. They hurried onto the green grassy meadow where the fish couldn't get to them.

"You punched those poor fish."

"What did you want me to do? Let them bite us or burn us with their acid-like spit?" Chad scanned the area. "I don't know where we are, but so far it's a dangerous place. Stay close to me."

They walked guardedly across the meadow. Tall and thin multi-colored flowers wove to and fro. Chad kept Ginger away from them.

"This is like some Sci-Fi movie," he said.

"I suppose those flowers can hurt us too?"

"By the bird bones scattered around, I'd have to go with yes."

They soon came upon life-like stone statues.

"Uh-oh," said Chad.

"What? I suppose they come alive?"

"They are alive."

The statues were whispering and moaning. "Help me," "Free me," they mumbled.

"Observe them closely, their eyes frozen in terror. Something did this to them," said Chad. "Hey, they resemble some of the previous owners."

"You are wise," said a voice.

Chad drew in a sharp breath. "A sphinx. Just our luck." He took Ginger's arm to prevent her from wandering past it.

"Correct," said the sphinx.

"This is bad," said Chad.

"Why?" asked Ginger.

"Did you ever take mythology?"

"Too boring."

"That sphinx sitting so calmly and appearing so harmless is going to give us a riddle. If we get it wrong, I'm guessing he turns us into stone."

"Correct again," said the sphinx.

"What happens if we get it right?" asked Chad.

"You may pass."

"But we don't want to pass. If I get it right, you show us how to get back to our world," countered Chad.

"That's what getting it right does, in a round-about way." The sphinx chuckled. "You can't go back, so forward you go, but take the turn, no to and fro."

"What does that mean?" asked Ginger.

"It means that we can't go the way we came, but once ahead we have to find a path that turns. We can't be indecisive, going back then forward," explained Chad. "Are there dangers ahead?"

"Dangers await everywhere. No matter the way, do be aware," said the sphinx.

Chad huffed. "This isn't good. What he means is, if we get the riddle right, we'll encounter more dangers and circle around to get home. And definitely we must go forward. If we make it around, will we meet another sphinx?"

"This is my spot. What lies ahead? I know not."

"Can you at least tell me the door that will take us home?" asked Chad.

The sphinx pointed back towards his right. Chad and Ginger looked that way. A large round door covered in thick spider webs sat in the nook of a far-away cliff.

"Anything special to open the door?" Chad asked.

"To open the door takes an ancient spell, one that you know of very well."

"Does it lead back to our world?" asked Chad.

"From where you came, it will take you there, but while you're climbing, don't fall. Beware."

"Do something," said Ginger. "Can't you punch him?"

"He's made of stone. The only thing I can do is answer the riddle."

"But if you get it wrong, we'll turn into a statue."

"If I don't answer, we stay here forever." Chad paced and thought. "Give only me the riddle, not her."

The sphinx stretched out his paws and crossed them again before speaking:

"I've been here forever; I think I'll not leave.

Here and there and around I weave.

I'm loved by many, but not by all,

While others will never come to call.

Perhaps what I say will seem like a lot,

But then again, maybe it's not.

At the beginning, I come to life,

Sometimes slowly, sometimes with strife.

Along my journey what can be found

Are many things that will astound.

Yet the route I take is possibly boring.

Instead of interest, there's only snoring.

I could have humor, sometimes with cheers.

Or else I'm frightening or cause lots of tears.

If I'm clever, the road will bend,

Before I arrive at the final end.

Some will continue with me 'til I'm through.

While others will find something else to do."

"Hmm," said Chad. "Give me a moment."

"Take all the time you need. Answer correctly to proceed," said the sphinx.

"Does he have to rhyme everything?" asked Ginger. "It gets a bit annoying. I'd understand it better if he didn't rhyme, if he talked more like we do. Why can't he just tell it like a story?"

"That's it!" said Chad. "It's a story."

The sphinx bowed his head. Chad took Ginger's hand and they ran past him, but the sphinx called out, "Remember this above all else. Do not kill or you'll die yourself."

The meadow was extensive, and the flowers they saw before were more plentiful.

"We have to keep straight," said Chad.

"How? We didn't bring a compass."

"We'll have to keep in alignment with the sphinx's back. Once we spot something ahead, we stay on course in a straight line between the two."

"And take care around the weaving flowers and what else?" Ginger was getting discouraged.

Chad turned to her and held her hands. "Hey, no one said the road to marriage was easy."

"That's not funny." She couldn't control her weeping.

He wiped away her tears. "I've gotten us this far, haven't I?"

"You got us farther than Connor could. He's athletic, but not very bright."

Chad laughed. "Understatement. Come on. Let's go."

As they walked, Ginger guided them around the flowers. Chad checked the sphinx and kept them straight. Nothing loomed ahead yet.

"How far away do you think the turn is?" asked Ginger.

"We'll know when we see it."

"I'm getting tired and I'm hot. I'm so thirsty. Can't we rest?"

"I don't trust this place. It's too inviting."

No sooner had he said that than a flock of enormous black birds flew their way. He pulled Ginger into a crouching position.

"I bet they're hunting for a tasty meal and I don't want to be it. Don't make a sound. Keep your eyes closed. Even if they peck at you, don't move."

"Chad."

"Shh. Don't be afraid. Here come some now."

Several of the humongous black birds, twice the size of Chad, headed their way, observing them. They landed and as they hopped near, they cawed loudly, pecking at Chad and Ginger. Blood ran down her arm and his leg. He kept his gaze on Ginger. She was biting her lip to stop from screaming. The flower stems stretched taller, weaving together, interlacing into cages, catching the birds in them. Then the petals opened wide, revealing rows of sharp teeth, and closed on the birds, chomping eagerly.

Chad gaped in horror. The birds squawked and flapped their wings, struggling to free themselves. Their cries became louder. The other birds dove down to help, but got caught in the traps too. The squawking became earsplitting screeches. Bits of the birds hit Ginger and Chad. Ginger had closed her eyes tightly, but tears rolled down her face and she sniffled and trembled, her face puckering from the stench. Soon the sounds stopped.

Chad pulled her to a standing position. "I'll have nightmares about this for years. It was sick, just sick. Now I know why there are bird bones everywhere. They ripped those birds to shreds and devoured them, then they spit out all the smaller bones, like they weren't good enough to eat. Luckily, I guess these plants find us too small to be worth consuming, but let's not take any chances. Let's stay as far away from them as we can. It's over. Open your eyes. We have to move on."

Ginger opened her eyes, terrified, but everything was back the way it was. Chad glanced at the sphinx and walked forward. Ginger followed closely. After what seemed like hours without shade and the hot sunshine, they came to a lake.

The water rippled from their shore to the other side. After a few minutes, it rippled back. Chad looked ahead to a tall pine tree. He looked back across the flat meadow. He could barely see the sphinx at all now. He put his hand in the water and waved it slowly back and forth.

"What do you think?" asked Ginger. "Is it safe to drink?"

"I think I don't trust it."

"The water's crystal clear. What are those wiggly black things?"

"Ow." Chad pulled out his hand. "A leech." He flicked it back into the water.

"Yuck."

"The lake's probably full of them and we're already bleeding. They'd have a feast sucking all over us. I wouldn't try drinking it."

"And we have to get across?"

"I think so. Look. Turtles. And huge ones too. They're bigger than the birds."

"So?"

"So I think they're going to float across the lake and let the waves take them to the other side."

"And?" asked Ginger, concerned.

"We'll hitch a ride."

"My brothers had a turtle and its shell was sensitive."

"We're not going to hurt them. We'll just sit on the last two that enter the water. What's the harm?"

"They bite, you know. They can stretch their necks back. They might even eat something our size."

"Better than leeches crawling all over us. Besides, they probably eat leeches, not humans. We have to get across somehow. Can you think of a better way?"

"What if they dunk under?"

"Then we swim as fast as we can. We can't stay here. Move slowly and carefully behind the last ones in the group. Don't scare them. As they enter the water, get on one."

"And doesn't that sound easy?"

They maneuvered around to the back of the turtles. When the last two started in the water, they crawled on and sat warily, bracing themselves with their hands. The turtles didn't seem to notice and Chad grinned at Ginger.

The turtles were busy snatching leeches and swallowing them, but just when they neared the other side and their shells were mostly out of the water, they realized the weight on their backs. Turning their heads one way or the other, they nipped at Chad and Ginger.

"Jump." Chad stood up, wobbly, then vaulted over his turtle, landing on the shore.

Ginger didn't move.

"Come on," said Chad.

"Ow. Ow," she exclaimed as the turtle nipped her.

"Stand up and jump. It'll just keep biting you until you get off." Chad was walking backwards towards the forest because the other turtles were coming after him, blocking his way to Ginger. "Crap, they can move fast. Hurry."

Finally, Ginger tried to stand and balance, but her foot slipped in the water and she tripped onto the shore. Getting up, she dashed towards Chad with the turtles snapping at her heels.

Chad yanked her into the forest. He glanced back, but the turtles were grazing on the grass, not getting anywhere near the forest. Kneeling, he peeled the leeches off her leg and lifted the pant leg. "It's not too bad." He tugged on a sleeve of his shirt until it ripped off and wrapped it around the bite marks. "It's hardly bleeding at all."

"It'll probably get infected between the turtle bites and the leeches." Ginger threw her arms around Chad and sobbed. "We're never going to get out alive."

"That was the easiest so far, but now we're in a forest and I can't see the tallest tree."

"It's not entirely dark. Wait. Our shadows were directly behind us. As we walk and get into the lighter areas, we'll just check our shadows and correct which way we're going."

Chad clutched Ginger's shoulders and kissed her. "Brilliant. You'll make a good wife."

She grimaced at him and he laughed. "Let's go. No talking and keep your eyes open."

They wandered through the forest when he stopped. He pointed to his left. Large vines wrapped around several trees, but there it was, the path they needed. Unfortunately, the vines had crisscrossed it. He picked up a twig and threw it at the vines. They wrapped tightly around it.

"How are we going to get past that?" he asked.

"Hello? Is someone out there?" came a voice ahead.

"Who are you?" called Chad.

An emaciated man wearing tattered clothes came out from behind a tree.

"Mr. Tobias? Is that you? You're awfully thin," said Chad.

"Little Chad?"

"I'm not so little anymore. You seem taller than I remember."

"How long have I been missing?"

"Ten years at least."

"Seems like only days," said Mr. Tobias.

"How long have we been gone?" asked Ginger.

"No idea," said Chad.

"With you two, we can make it past the vines," suggested Mr. Tobias. "We'll fight them together. We can do it."

"How did you survive? What have you lived on?" asked Chad.

"Berries." He held out his hand full of purple berries.

"How'd you know they weren't poisonous?"

"Didn't. Had to chance it. I was starving. Want some?"

Ginger reached to take them, but Chad pulled her back. "We're not hungry right now. I think I'll find a different way to get across those vines."

"Suit yourself, but I've tried everything."

"Are you going to stand there and watch us?" asked Chad.

Mr. Tobias shrugged. "What else have I to do?"

"That's the question, isn't it?" Chad pulled Ginger towards the vines. Several lifted apart from the others and swayed menacingly.

"Why are you being so mean?" asked Ginger.

"That's Mr. Tobias alright, but he's changed. Did you notice how his eyes glowed?"

"What's the matter with him?"

"My guess is when Mr. Tobias got too hungry, he found a wandering animal or even a lost human in the woods and ate him. He became a wendigo. They're cannibals. He just has to catch us off guard or trick us. Watch out!" Chad stomped on a vine that was about to wrap itself around Ginger. He held it down with one foot and tried to break that part off from the rest.

"Don't," said Ginger. "Remember what the sphinx said."

Chad ripped it anyway. "I didn't kill the vine."

The other vines were slowly creeping towards them. Mr. Tobias was still smiling and waiting.

"He waits until someone gets tangled," surmised Chad, "or runs back to him thinking he's the lesser evil."

"Maybe he'll get caught in the vines."

"I'm guessing that the vines aren't strong enough for him. Climb that branch. Hurry." He tossed Ginger into the air. She grabbed the branch and swung herself onto it. Chad jumped and held onto the tree trunk working his way up to her. "Go higher," he ordered. "Keep climbing."

The vines were crawling up the tree after them. Just as Chad reached the branch, the wendigo scrambled up towards him. Now in its true inhuman form, the creature was much taller and gruesome and it emitted a squeal that sent shivers through Chad and Ginger.

It lunged for Chad, but Chad twisted to the side and reached for another branch. Ginger stomped on its head with both feet. It snatched at her, but Chad was next to her now, pulling her up to a higher branch. He drew the branch below towards him as far as he could without breaking it and let it go. It struck the wendigo in the face. Again, the ungodly squeal, and the wendigo tumbled to the ground. They climbed up several more branches.

"This is going to be tough," said Chad, "but I think we can make it. You go first. Hurry across this branch until it starts to bow then grasp the opposite one. Work your way towards the inside of the tree."

"Chad!" Ginger pointed behind him as a vine wound around his leg.

"Go!" he ordered.

Ginger crept across the branch until it started to sag from her weight. She glanced behind her and Chad was coming, kicking at the vine that had wrapped halfway up his leg. She reached out as far as she could and seized the branch on the other tree, scurrying across as it bounced down and up. Vines had started up that tree too.

Chad writhed and dragged himself, still kicking the vine. The branch bowed down. Vines stretched up. Finally, he cracked a branch near his leg and sawed off the vine on the broken branch. He swung upwards to the other bough and hurried to Ginger. "Keep going. Across this tree to the next and the next, where-ever we can make a connection."

They crossed several trees before he felt safe enough to lead her back down to the ground, but now they were off the path.

"This way," said Ginger. "I kept track."

When they found the path again, they hurried along it. Ahead Chad could see a clearing. He leaned against a tree and breathed deeply. "It was cutting off my circulation." He pulled up his pants leg to reveal a bruise.

A voice echoed through the forest, "Too bad. You would have made a tasty treat."

"Now that's just wrong," said Chad.

Ginger threw herself in Chad's arms, terrified.

"Another danger over," he said softly.

"Do you think you killed that vine?"

"I hope not. Ripping a piece off shouldn't kill a vine."

"And that wasn't a man?"

"Nope, but that's why we have to keep going and get out of these woods. Jogging time."

"I told you, I'm not good at running."

"No choice. We don't know what else is in here or if it can still get us."

Taking Ginger's hand, he jogged along the path. After a while, she tugged on his hand.

"No farther. Can't," she said, breathless.

"We're almost to the end."

Ginger regarded the sparseness of the trees ahead.

"You can do this," he encouraged.

The wendigo squealed again, and its voice was much closer to them than they liked. She found her second breath and they continued. Soon, Chad slowed down. There weren't many trees now, just an open grassy area with a brook running by. He knelt and tasted the water.

"Is it good?" she asked.

"I don't taste anything bad, but that doesn't mean it's good."

"I don't care. I'm too thirsty." Ginger used her hands as a cup and gulped down several handfuls.

Chad drank a little bit more then splashed water on his face and hands. Ginger laughed and did the same. They smiled at each other, glad to be out of one more danger, but everything became blurry, and they slumped onto the ground.

Chad woke up first feeling groggy. He blinked and sat up. They were in the same spot and Ginger was still asleep.

"Wake up." He shook her. "Ginger." He slapped her face and her eyes popped open.

"Where am I?" she asked.

"By the brook. Come on. We've got to move on." He helped her up. "This way."

They tottered unsteadily ahead, he supporting her.

"What happened?" she asked. "Why is it dark?"

"The water drugged us."

"For how long?"

"I don't know, but it was light when we fell asleep. Check behind us."

"What are those?"

"Trolls, and they're hunting along the brook. They only come out at night. It was a trap and we're lucky to have escaped in time."

"Do you think they'd hurt us?"

Chad chuckled. "I think they can. They eat humans. We've got to stay out of their way until daylight when they convert to stone."

As they hurried across the field, the sun began to rise.

"It's awfully hot for so early." Then Ginger screamed.

A group of trolls was heading their way, and they didn't look at all friendly. Chad took her hand. They ran, but as they ran, it got hotter, especially the ground. Daylight had broken and they checked the trolls, who had turned into stone statues.

"One more thing we escaped," said Chad.

"Don't you think it's odd that we've avoided every danger so far?"

"I do, but don't ask me why."

"Maybe because we're not killing anything?"

"Maybe. The lake should be up ahead. Then across another field, over the river to the cliffs, and we'll make it home yet."

But the farther they went, the hotter it got with no sign of the lake. The grass around their feet was brown and smoldering and wisps of smoke rose high up above them. In places, charred plants. The air was difficult to breathe.

"What is it?" asked Ginger.

"Fire."

She gaped. Ahead, smoke clouded the landscape and the sky.

Chad pulled her forward, but it wasn't that much farther before he stopped.

Large flames pranced across the meadow in front of them and the heat was unbearable. They backed up.

"There seems to be an invisible line where the fire burns and then it doesn't," said Chad.

"Now what?" asked Ginger. "The land to the left and right is burning too, and we can't go back the way we came. We were so close."

"The fire's dancing." Chad squinted at it.

"Fire always looks like it's dancing."

"Not like this. There's shapes in it."

"I don't see anything. Let me guess. More of your mythology?"

"I see dragons and salamanders. The sparks above aren't sparks at all, but fire fairies. Do you have any jewelry?"

"Let's see. There's my engagement ring," she said teasingly. "I have an anklet with my name engraved from my mother and a necklace from Connor."

"Give it all to me. You wait here." Chad removed a pocket watch that once belonged to his grandfather and hopped across the burnt, parched ground. He waved the necklace at a spark above the fire.

To Ginger's surprise, the spark flew to him. Hopping back and forth in place, he negotiated. Sometimes shaking his head no, sometimes nodding yes, sometimes pointing at Ginger, he continued on with the discussion. Finally, he handed the jewelry to the fairy, she gave him something in return that he stuffed in his pocket, and he waved Ginger over. She maneuvered her way across the scorching ground to Chad.

He took off his shirt. "Here. Hold tightly to one end." He held the other end.

From the fire burst forth an enormous burning bird, who, once in the air, transformed into amazing colors with glowing plumage. The bird flew to them and clasped onto the middle of the shirt, then flew high above the fire straight to the river's shore and set them down, releasing Chad's shirt. It flew back to the fire, hovered, and then dove directly down into it.

"What was that?" asked Ginger, awed.

"A fire phoenix."

"They're not real."

"But everything else here is?" Chad grinned.

"Your mythology's paying off. If I'd been with Connor, we wouldn't have made it."

He shrugged. "I like books. I'll read anything."

Ginger turned towards the bridge. "That's not the same bridge, is it?"

"Nope, but straight across from it is that sandy stretch of land and the door."

They walked closer.

"What's sitting on it?" she asked.

"They're mermen, and they're fishing for those man-fish that tried to attack us."

"Are mermen dangerous?"

"Some don't like humans, but they're not tricky like mermaids."

"What are we going to do?"

"We're going to cross the bridge. I think they'll ignore us if we don't interfere.... Ginger?"

Ginger was walking in a stiff manner towards a merman, who was staring at her. Chad ran after her and seized her by the shoulders.

"Wake up. He's enchanted you. Ginger!"

She tried to walk forward, but he held her in place. The merman's fins transformed into human legs and he approached them.

"What do you want for her?" asked the merman.

"You can't have her."

"Is she yours?"

"Mine," said Chad firmly.

"Too bad. She's very pretty. Do you need to cross the bridge?"

"We do."

"Give her to me and I'll see you safely across."

"No deal."

"No crossing." The merman walked away.

"Wait! You're not having much luck catching the fish, I see."

"They're too smart, but a delicious treat when we get one."

"See her safely across the bridge and I'll lure the fish to your friends."

The merman smiled. "I'll take her across, but should you fail, she's mine."

"Deal."

The merman hummed and Ginger went with him over the bridge to the rusty colored sand. He put his arm around her waist and held her close to him while she stayed in a trance. Chad walked onto the bridge. He took another step and stooped over, but the man-fish didn't come. He glanced over at Ginger. The merman had now wrapped both arms around her.

Chad took another step and bent over the railing. He could see the man-fish hiding under the bridge. He leaned farther down. Still nothing. He moved to the middle of the bridge and tried again. The man-fish glowered at him, but they did nothing.

Suddenly, he threw punches towards the water. They stirred. He made an angry face and threw more punches. They swam in a wide circle, glaring at him. He pointed at them, laughing, taunting them. Several jumped out of the water at him, their mouths open to attack, but the mermen used their nets and caught them, cheering, while Chad darted to the other side.

The merman released Ginger. "She would have made a lovely treasure, but we feast tonight." As he joined his friends, Ginger shook out of her trance.

"How did we get here?" she asked.

"I'll explain later."

"Where did the mermen go?"

"They're done fishing."

"And they just let us across?"

"That's a story for another day. Now, how do we get past that web?"

"We run through it?"

Chad tossed a stone into the web and it stuck. A gigantic brown furry spider ran after it, but seeing that it was nothing more than a stone, it hissed and backed away.

Ginger hid behind Chad. "I've never seen a spider that size."

"Now what? I have to say, I'm not fond of spiders."

"You and me both."

"Don't touch the web. It's pretty thick and no doubt sticky." He walked around, contemplating from the web to the river and back.

"We're not supposed to kill anything," reminded Ginger.

"What if we don't, but it does? I wonder. Do you know the spell? I only know one and I bet you know it too. You're going to have to stand near the web, but not too close. I'll get some of those ugly fish to lunge towards me and I'll toss them high into the web." Chad sighed. "Even if we do get past the web, and through the door, we don't know what's on the other side."

"We can't stay here long," said Ginger as a thick puddle burped into existence next to Chad.

He walked closer to the web. The spider clicked its legs excitedly. He took a pinch of something out of his pocket and flung it at the web. Tiny holes appeared.

"What did you throw?"

"Would you believe fire fairy dust? That was part of my deal for the jewelry. I have an idea. You know what to say, don't you?"

"I think so."

Chad went to the river's edge. "Gave up, did you?" he called. "Kind of dumb, attacking mermen instead of me."

An irate man-fish leaped out of the water. Chad grasped its body and chucked it into the web. The spider dashed to it and the man-fish spit. The acid from its mouth dripped down the web, ripping it open.

"He missed. Are you all dumb like that?" Chad called.

Now several lunged towards him. He tossed two more into the web and ran away from the rest, dodging the burping puddles that swallowed the other man-fish falling on the sand. He rushed towards the door. "Now!" he yelled.

More acid had seeped down, widening the holes into a large gap.

"Open, says I," shouted Ginger.

Chad grasped her hand and ran through as the door creaked partway open. Once they were inside, the door slammed shut.

"It's so dark. I can't see anything," Ginger whispered.

Chad sprinkled fairy dust ahead of them and tossed a pinch upwards. The dust glowed yellow in the darkness, illuminating stairs. But there weren't just some stairs. The tiny, short, narrow stairs climbed beyond what they could see and almost straight up.

"Talk about a stairway to heaven," he said glumly.

"I'll never make it up those," she said.

"We dropped down pretty far, so I'm not surprised how high we have to climb, but now I understand the sphinx's 'beware'. This is our only way home. We'll be lucky if we don't trip. Then we'll tumble right back to the bottom. I say we use our hands and feet."

They climbed, and climbed, and climbed. Then they climbed even more, stopping often to catch their breath. Chad threw pinches of fire fairy dust upwards every so often.

"I'm so hungry and thirsty and sweaty," complained Ginger. "My legs ache something fierce."

"Just don't look down."

They had no idea how long it took until they finally came to a small door.

Chad opened it slightly and peeked in. "I think we're in your house."

"Let me see."

He moved over and Ginger squeezed between him and the door.

"Oh no." She gulped.

"Don't say "oh no" when we've gotten this close," he said.

"That's the attic."

"And?"

"My dad thought they were huge magpies, but it's those gigantic birds. They live in there."

Chad peeked in again. Several of the enormous black birds were perched on rafters or nestled on the floor. "They're asleep right now. They must guard this entranceway so humans can't get through. I think this house was built on magical land. We have to get across the room to the door."

"My dad locked the door from the other side."

"No key?"

"Like I carry that with me?"

He checked his pocket. "I'm almost out of fairy dust. We might have to throw some at the birds, but I bet if I toss a bit at the door handle, I can open it."

"Will it burn them?"

"It might." He gave Ginger some dust. He took off his shirt again and wrapped it around his hand. "You go first. Move fast, but quietly. Fling it at any bird that wakes up." He held a pinch in his hand. "I'm right behind you."

She flipped the hot dust from hand to hand as she snuck through. He came out right behind her, shutting the door softly.

They hurried across the wooden floor when Chad stepped on a crack and a floor board creaked. A bird nestled on the floor opened his eyes then squawked. The birds started up in a commotion. Chad and Ginger ran to the door and he flicked the pinch at the knob. She was lobbing smidgens of fairy dust at the birds, which caused a bigger commotion because it burned them.

"It seems mean to throw this at them."

"It came from a fire fairy. What did you think it would do? Cool them off?" He grasped the red-hot knob with his shirt and pushed Ginger out, following her and shutting the door. The birds were still fussing.

"Ginger? Chad? Where've you been? You've been missing for days," said Ginger's mother.

Ginger's family stood on the stairs gawking at them.

"What were you doing in there with my daughter and your shirt off?" demanded her father.

"Saving my life," said Ginger defiantly.

"Run!" yelled Chad. "Outside now. Run!"

The birds batted their wings against the door and the door was bulging outward. Smoke was crawling from underneath the attic door. The family ran down the stairs just as Connor came up calling, "Hello? Anyone home? I'm looking for Ginger." Then he noticed Chad and Ginger together. "What are you doing, holding Ginger's hand, Chadlene?" He heard the birds' commotion. "What's that?" he asked, terrified.

"Not so brave now, are you?" Chad ushered Ginger and her family down the stairs.

Connor ran past everyone, pushing them out of the way. On the first floor, he took hold of the doorknob, but the door refused to open. He banged on the front door. "Help!" he yelled. "Help." He turned to the family. "The door won't open!"

Chad shoved him aside and threw the rest of the fairy dust at the door knob. He opened the door with his hand still wrapped in his shirt, and the family ran out. But the little bit of fairy dust also hit the door, which caught on fire and so did the walls. The family had stopped on the sidewalk staring at their home.

"The birds," said Ginger.

"They got in, they can get out." Chad put on his scorched and ripped shirt.

"What's wrong with my family and Connor?"

"Don't you get it? They're under a spell. We were too. Once the birds attacked your father in the attic, they sealed your home so you could never come out, which activated the spell. You could enter, like Connor did, but not exit the property."

"That means you and I haven't been to classes this week. We only thought we did."

"I never went home either."

"You were the apparition I saw in the yard."

"I think those apparitions were families who made the same mistake of going in the attic and remained in the home until they died."

Chad and Ginger watched as the house burned. The jack o' lanterns, rubber bats and skeletons that decorated the window sills melted into grotesque shapes before being swallowed up by the flames.

"The Willow tree," said Ginger.

The fire engulfed the house and yard, but not the Willow tree. It stood the same as it always had.

"Chad, you saved us," said Ginger's dad as fire trucks rushed to their home.

"He's my hero," said Ginger. "Where's Connor."

"He ran off when the fire started," said Chad.

"Doesn't matter. I'm already engaged." Ginger smiled at Chad. "I can't think of a better, braver man to spend the rest of my life with."

"I'm thinking, after we're married, I'm going to write a book. I have the perfect storyline. Look." He pointed at the flames where the dragons and salamanders danced and to the sparks, which were, as Chad and Ginger knew, fire fairies.

*****

If you enjoyed this story you might like to read more of DM Yate's writing. Such as...

The Lone Hero

by DM Yates

Aberforth, home world to dragons and people is at war. Dragons are fighting each other and the human race is in danger of extinction. Einarr is born in a dragon's companion line. Due to an ancient magical ritual performed by Zavat, a powerful dragon, Einarr is chosen to help bring about the end of the war and issue peace back to Aberforth. This will be no easy task for Einarr since the war will last throughout his lifetime.

*****

**I was most influenced to pursue my dreams** by the children's book, _A Child's Garden of Verses'_ by Robert Lewis Stevenson and in my teenage years by Shakespeare.

I have an Associate degree in Humanities - French and German, A Bachelor degree in Mandarin Chinese and Chinese History, graduating Magna Cum Laude and a member of Alpha Chi, and 3 years of graduate work in Classical and Documentary Chinese, Chinese History, and Linguistics.

I've lived in 6 states and visited 26 states. I found people to be so interesting that I delved into personality books of any kind. Along the way I developed a spiritual interest in the great Universe. I write novels in the Fantasy/New Age/Spiritual/Romance genre. I also write poetry.

**Website:** <http://dmyates.weebly.com/>

#  Halloween's Perfect Storm

By LC Cooper

**F** actors, such as those conditions that come together to create a "Perfect Storm," wrapped around us as we entered into the Halloween weekend of 2002. We just completed unpacking from our move into a cozy apartment complex only a few minutes away from my job. The deal we got on the place was, shall I say, peculiar. Three months of free rent and a garage thrown in seemed over the top, but we weren't complaining. Did they know something we didn't?

With everything unpacked, we smiled warmly at each other as we plopped down onto our sofa for a relaxing night of rented movies and Chinese food. We got through the entire series of _Nightmare on Elm Street_ films, but were unwilling to retire to the bedroom. So, there we remained, huddled in each other's arms.

Who knows, maybe it was the gas from the food, or maybe the fact that we were scared s**tless by our revved-up imaginations, but we awoke a few minutes after midnight to an eerie bluish-white glow coming from a corner of the living room. Only after our voices went hoarse from screaming like little school girls, did we regain our composure. We sheepishly turned off the TV and the glow it emanated vanished. Oh, sure, you sit there mocking us. Well, read on...if you dare, for the truth becomes even more bizarre. As I said before, this was to be Halloween's "Perfect Storm."

The place we had rented was in an apartment complex named "The Gables." The property manager was a kindly, yet dusty old man named "Nate Hawthorne." The road outside of our apartment was, of course, Elm Street. Our next door neighbor's name was Jason. I'm not making this up.

On this particular Halloween morning, as we were pulling out of our garage, off to our right, perched atop a nearby chimney, were three vultures. They were facing us, poised as if ready to strike if we took our eyes off of them. Once on Elm Street, we had to swerve sharply to avoid running over a family of black cats that were ambling across the road. Later that evening, after picking up the Chinese food and videos, we came home to a skyline filled with a flock of vultures quietly settling onto our building's roof. They were eerily backlit by nothing other than a large full moon.

Then, there was this other matter. You've all seen it. Most of us pass by it every day of our lives and have become numb to its presence. And it sees us, no doubt, but not in some Orwellian and or grandiose or malevolent manner. No, it is not aggressive, but neither is it kind. It watches over us. It helps half of us find relief. Yet, it remains silent and unmoved by our presence. It can be moody; sardonically mocking The Frustrated who must race off when unable to gain entrance into its lair.

Two hours after turning off the TV that fateful Halloween night, I groggily fended off the second karate-chop to my chest. "What the...," I angrily muttered to no one there. My wife had already leapt out of bed and was quickly making her way down the hall toward the source of a soft blue light! "No," I screamed as I ran to rescue my wife from being drawn into the ethereal _Poltergeist_ knock-off. "Not on my shift," I, the bad-ass that I am, growled as I psyched myself up for battle.

After sloppily stuffing my glasses onto my face, I stubbed my big toe on the bedpost. I dropped to the floor. Thankfully, my impact was cushioned by my glasses, which had arrived on the carpet beneath me only moments before. Lying there in the fetal position atop my crushed glasses, I massaged my throbbing toe while I yelped like a Chihuahua.

"Shut up, you idiot," was my wife's emasculating reply to my piss-poor attempt at chivalry. "Shhh...you'll scare it away," she whispered.

Wiping away my girly tears, I hobbled down the hall to find out what was capable of captivating my wife while debilitating me in mere seconds. No, it wasn't Fabio prancing around on our TV screen this time. It wasn't the flock of vultures rummaging through our fridge. I stood there, mesmerized by...by...

Well, heck, I couldn't tell. After all, I'm damned near blind without my contacts, and my glasses were mashed into a fine powder. All that friggin' build-up and I couldn't even see what the heck was going on. I tried rubbing my eyes, but the wasabi mustard I had forgotten to wash off my hands after dinner, peeled away layers of my eyeballs.

Anywho, my wife described to me a benevolent apparition. Four-feet tall, it stood before us, but had no visible feet. Its hands were also missing. The head was a perfect circle sitting atop a triangular, yet nondescript, dress. Two arms hung at an angle that gave us the impression its deodorant wasn't quite yet dry. The two legs remained parallel and unmoving; just like an inflate-a-mate's does when first filled with air (not that I know anything about that kind of stuff).

This was an all-too-familiar specter, but wracking our brains produced no answers. It remained in our living room for another three hours before it, and its blue-glowing background, slowly faded away.

The next morning came and went without incident. My wife and I met for lunch at a restaurant. Just before dessert, my wife excused herself, but not having a girlfriend to take with her, she dragged me along. As we turned the last corner, my wife let out a blood-curdling scream. The ghoulish fiend was there, waiting to ambush us.

"Guess I don't need to use the restroom after all," my wife whispered through her shock, as she tried to slowly back away.

"The guy who mops the floor later isn't going to be too happy with you, you know," I replied.

Patting the hair back down on my neck proved futile – it stuck straight out like my mother-in-law's moustache. While I distracted the spirit with shrill, childlike begging, my wife rummaged through her small clutch purse for anything that could help save us. Her Mace was useless and the Taser was equally ineffective. Her chain saw wouldn't start, and the .357 Magnum was out of bullets. "Why do women bother to carry such tiny purses," I wondered.

"Move on," we heard the impatient voice say, amazingly, from behind us. A wet thud followed by a groan gave us hope that the monster had slipped and fallen on the urine-splattered tile floor. No such luck. Instead, an old geezer lay there, out cold. Apparently, because our stand-off with the ghost occurred between the restrooms and the emergency-exit door, we unknowingly thwarted the old fart's attempt to skip out on his check.

Floating eye-level on the wall before us, our phantom remained unfazed. Here, although outnumbered and only twelve inches tall, the ghost refused to back down. "Go ahead, run the gauntlet," it seemed to sneer.

"You two look like you've seen a ghost," the busboy said to us, as he approached with a mop and bucket.

"Good, you see it, too!" we exclaimed in unison.

"See what?" was his clever reply.

"Why, the...the ghost!" we yelled as we pointed toward the bathrooms.

"Great," the busboy sighed. "I came into work today for this? It's not bad enough that I have to get this old deadbeat back on his feet and mop up his piss, but I get stuck with the two nutbags afraid of the sign for the Women's restroom?"

Yes, dear readers, it is true. The specter that haunted our home on Halloween night was none other than the figure used to identify the Women's Restroom. We had been haunted by a toilet marker!

[maniacal, Vincent Price-like laugh]

*****

If you enjoyed this story you might like to read more of LC Cooper's writing. Such as...

Man Cave

by LC Cooper

Homelife wrecked, Adam agrees to spend his birthday camping with his best friend, Eric. What they must endure will test the limits of their friendship... and their sanity. Adventure-seekers at heart, these men have no idea what awaits them in Manton.

A follower and an introvert, Adam is content accepting whatever life throws at him. Eric, Adam's gregarious best friend, talks Adam into a different birthday present, one that proves to be more than a distraction from life's dramas. Although seasoned outdoorsmen, neither man is prepared for what they uncover.

Who can help them? Who can they trust? Frequent dangers they face possess the power to consume their very souls. Adam and Eric must grow together if they are to survive. Will Adam become the man he only dreamed of being? If not, what awaits them in "Man Cave" will most certainly destroy them.

*****

**I live with my wonderful husband,** our great kids, and our bratty cats in our cabin at the base of the smoky mountains. When not writing, I enjoy gardening, reading, vacationing in exotic places, and visiting family and friends. I have degrees in mathematics education and curriculum design, but with the fallout of that lousy system called common core, I prefer to write more than teach. My goal is to publish four novels every year, and I do enjoy writing short stories, so look for a few of those sprinkled in between the Novels. Note that I will always give my short stories away, whereas my Novels will always have a price tag unless there's a freebie promotion.

**Website:** <http://lccooperauthor.weebly.com/>

#  Afterglow

By Russ Towne

I could tell as we drove up that it was love at first sight. My wife Jennifer couldn't take her eyes off the secluded old house. The real estate agent, seeing her reaction and knowing a sale was almost certain, nearly leapt from the car. Martha looked to be around fifty-five years old, about twenty years our senior. She guided us from the front of the house to a small wall, which stood as a lonely sentinel protecting the unsuspecting from an eighty-foot drop to a rugged boulder-strewn beach. The surf mercilessly pounded unyielding, jagged rocks, but the latter gave no quarter, breaking up the attack and forcing the mighty waves to eventually retreat and regroup to strike yet again. I never tire of watching such epic battles, and was delighted to know that we could soon have daily ringside seats to this awesome spectacle. I was nearly as excited as Jennifer.

Martha turned and led us toward the large Victorian Era home. It reminded me of a beautiful woman who sat anxiously watching and waiting for her sailor to return from the sea.

Despite all of its natural beauty and architectural elegance, I couldn't shake the feeling that the house somehow exuded a sadness and loneliness that I couldn't explain.

Martha guided us from room to room, describing attributes as she went. She wisely slowed down to let us take in the amazing craftsmanship and decorative flourishes that were everywhere. It was obvious the old house had been well taken care of for most of its long existence, but the last few years clearly had been less kind to her. It was as though an elegant lady a bit past her prime had just stopped caring for herself. Small signs of recent neglect were evident, but clearly correctable with the tender love we were eager to begin lavishing on her.

It wasn't long before we were sitting at a table back in Martha's office putting an offer together. She paused, shifted in her chair, and looked down on the paperwork as she began speaking. Martha stammered. It appeared she was forcing herself to say something so distasteful that each word might well have been covered in lemon juice. "Uh, like some other houses along the coast, this house has had, shall we say, a 'colorful' history. Due to its secluded location during Prohibition, it was used by rumrunners to offload and store the moonshine brought in by boats. It then became a speakeasy and, uh, a house of ill repute."

Martha watched nervously at our reaction to the news. We looked at each other and began laughing. Jennifer quipped, "Well, that will certainly make for some interesting conversation at cocktail parties!" We all burst out laughing, and Martha's relief was palpable.

Now that Martha knew it was a safe subject, she added with a mischievous grin: "Local legend has it that police officers and sheriff's deputies came from many miles around and were some of the house's best customers."

Martha suddenly became quiet again, a troubled look replacing her laughter. "There is something else I need to tell you. A woman died in her sleep in this house about a year ago."

My heart sank. Jennifer is terrified of ghosts and has never liked being in buildings where people had died. Once several years ago at a tiny old restaurant, we read on their menu that many people believed the place was haunted. It described in detail several frightening incidents that had occurred on the premises. Most of them happened in the women's restroom. We noticed that the dining area was dimly lit, and the long, narrow, nearly dark hallway to the restrooms appeared to only have a single lonely, dust-covered, old-style 40-watt incandescent lightbulb. It cast an eerie yellow glow over the part of the hallway it could reach. The women's restroom appeared to be just beyond the lit area.

As the meal progressed, Jennifer became more and more fidgety in her chair. When I finally asked her what was wrong, she whisper-blurted, "I _really_ need to go to the bathroom, but I don't want to go anywhere near the women's restroom after reading the stories about the ghost."

We were at least twenty miles from the next restroom, and it was clear she wouldn't be able to hold out that long. I unsuccessfully tried to calm her down, and finally due to desperation on both our parts, she said she'd use the restroom if I stood just outside the door and promised to rush in if I heard her scream. I did as she asked, feeling more than a little silly standing so close to the women's restroom, and especially for the reason I was there. When she got inside, I think she broke speed records as she used the facilities and raced out. We've never been back to that restaurant.

Whenever I recall that incident, I normally wear a big grin and sometimes burst out laughing; but not the time we were in Martha's office. I just _knew_ Jennifer wouldn't want to proceed with the offer, but it turned out her love for that house and the excitement about it being the home of her dreams overcame all other concerns, and we bought it.

Jenifer and I moved in several weeks later and nervously watched as storm clouds gathered on moving day. We'd had to move in the rain once before and didn't want a repeat of that miserable experience. Fortunately, the movers finished before the storm hit. As they left, a neighbor drove up in a dusty old pickup and introduced himself. George Hanson informed us that he and his wife Hilda lived on a farm about fifteen minutes away and were our nearest neighbors. Then, within the next five minutes, he proceeded to tell us every secret and foible he could think of about everyone who lived within a thirty-mile radius. I wasn't facing Jennifer, but I swear I heard her eyeballs rolling as she turned away in disgust at the nonstop dirt dump. I wondered when this horrific gossip had time to do any farming, and made a mental note to refrain from telling him anything I didn't want to have broadcasted to the world.

As I attempted to think of a polite excuse to send him on his way, he asked, "Did you hear about the young woman who died in your house?" We nodded. "Her name was Evelyn. She was sweet and died way too young. It's because of Johnny Gables and Madeline Johnson." He saw the puzzled looks on our faces and added, "The coroner said Evie—that's what my Hilda called her—died of a heart attack, but my Hilda believes she really died of a broken heart and loneliness. Evie was engaged to Johnny, but a week before the big wedding, she caught Johnny and her best friend Madeline Johnson in bed together. In one fell swoop, Evie lost her fiancé and best—actually, only—friend.

"Evie never recovered. She barely ate and rarely left the house. It was her safe haven. One of her relatives had built it way back in the late 1800s and it's always been in her family. Until now. Evie was the last of her line. Anyway, life just seemed to drain out of her.

"My Hilda often visited, bringing baked goods and checking on her. Then one day, Evie didn't answer the door. A sheriff's deputy found her dead in her bed. Appears she died in her sleep. Poor thing."

He then veered off onto another tangent, and it took twenty more minutes of suffering through more dirt-dishing before we could finally get him to leave. I think he was beginning to run out of ammunition anyway, and since it was clear he was going to get little more than a name, rank, and serial number from us despite his rude questions and probing, I guess he felt he needed to go elsewhere to begin to reload.

We breathed sighs of relief as he drove away. _Tap_. _Tap-tap_. I looked up just in time to get hit in the face by the start of a full-blown rainstorm. We shrugged and laughed as we ran into the house. The rain fell so hard and fast it felt and sounded as though we were under a small dam that had just burst. I looked nervously at the old ceiling and hoped the roof two floors above it was as water-tight as Martha had claimed.

We spent the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening hours getting to know our new home and figuring where to put things. The lights flickered and went out. Absolute darkness. I was in the middle of a maze of boxes in a strange house in darkness so complete I couldn't see an inch in front of me. Jennifer was in the kitchen two rooms away with many obstacles lying in the dark between us. I started to carefully make my way toward the direction I thought I remembered the kitchen was in. _Crash!_

Jennifer yelled, "You okay, honey?"

As I attempted to pick myself up, I leaned on a pile of what felt like boxes and knocked over another whole pile. Some of the items fell on top of me as I crashed back onto the floor. "Yes!" I yelled in a voice that sounded more perturbed than okay.

"Wait there. I think I know where . . . ah, here it is." She came walking toward me, trailing a sweet beam of light and burst out laughing at the mess I'd made. Fortunately, the boxes that fell onto me had been full of clothes and other light items.

It took forty minutes to find and light candles, but when we finished, we realized how romantic it was. Since it was also the first night in our new home, we celebrated with some bubbly, toasted to our new home, kissed, blew out the downstairs candles, and took the remaining lit ones up creaky stairs to our new bedroom. We flopped our box spring and mattress onto the floor and threw some blankets on them, then blew out the candles, crawled beneath the covers, and fell asleep as our heads hit our pillows.

I was awakened by a pulsing golden glow, like that from a large candle, but, when I opened my eyes, the light was gone. _What was that?_ I looked at Jennifer, who'd always been a deep sleeper. True to form, she'd slept through whatever it was that had awakened me.

Her skin glowed _. Must be a reflection from the moon,_ I thought, until I remembered the drapes and blinds were closed and the storm clouds had smothered the moon. I still looked to be sure. No light came in through the windows. My gaze fell back onto Jennifer. _What a beautiful woman I married,_ I thought gratefully. My love for her was so deep I almost ached. At that moment, Jennifer opened her eyes and whispered, "Let's make love!" There was an urgency and hunger in her voice that I hadn't heard in years.

I knew from the moment we kissed that something was different. It was powerful and deep and lasted much longer than usual. We were both breathless when it ended.

Our love-making was more intensely passionate that night. We explored and pleasured each other's bodies as though for the first time, trying new things, rewarding and being rewarded.

When we were completely spent, Jennifer fell asleep almost instantly. I lay beside her in the dark, marveling at the magic we created, and was startled by a golden glow that rose from her sleeping body.

As it faded away, I heard the faintest whisper of a woman's voice I'd never heard before. "Thank you! It's been so long. Let's do it again sometime!"

*****

If you enjoyed this story you might like to read more of Russ's writing. Such as...

Touched: Speculative and Flash Fiction

by Russ Towne

Terror, love, chills, hope, magic, thrills, and fantasy await you. Come inside and be Touched! These stories will inspire, haunt, amaze, and delight readers who love to experience the wide array of speculative and flash fiction genres. Journey from inner hearts to outer space, utopias to dystopias, and many worlds in between. Experience the hope, strength, perseverance, despair, and heroism of ordinary people as they face breathtaking odds with their lives and, sometimes, the fate of whole worlds hanging in the balance.

In her quest to find answers, Christa gets caught up in a war between two different kinds of werewolves. And it's then she learns werewolves are real. And she finds herself falling in love with this beautiful man who is trying to protect her from all this. But he is also trying to prevent her from falling in love with him. It's too dangerous for her. She is only human. She isn't strong enough to handle the deadly dangers he has to face. But she wants him. On a level she never knew existed. How will she ever survive if she can't have him?

*****

**Russ lives with his wife in Campbell, California.** They've been married since 1979 and have three children and three grandsons. In addition to enjoying his family and friends, and his dual passions for investing and writing, Russ loves to spend time in nature, especially near rivers and streams that run through giant redwood groves, and near beautiful beaches. He enjoys watching classic movies, reading, and tending to his small fern garden and redwood grove. Russ manages the investments of the wealth management firm he founded in 2003. He has published fourteen books, eight of which are children's books.

**Website:** http://russtowne.com

#  The Body By the Tree

By Yawatta Hosby

"Stop being a wimp all your life and woman up," my brother Bentley demanded. He glared at me through his black ski mask, snatching my hand and forcing me to follow him.

Life _so_ wasn't fair. I just knew that I was gonna go trick-or-treating in the neighborhood. That's why I was wearing my Snow White costume, _not_ the skimpy kind. I'm only eleven.

Bentley, five years older than me, had other things in mind. My worst nightmare--hanging out at the Haunted Fairgrounds. Our parents wouldn't even let me watch horror movies, so what made him think I could handle this?

I fought the urge to scream. My brother would plummet me to the ground before the first gasp escaped my mouth. Big bully.

It only took us six blocks to cut through the creepy cemetery. Holding my breath, I closed my eyes. It was a starless night, and no streetlights bothered dimming the area.

Bentley jerked my hand. "Are you stupid? You almost ran into a head stone."

Whimpering, I said, "I'm scared."

Bentley stopped in his tracks. Why? I didn't wanna stay longer than necessary. He laughed and shone a flashlight into my tightly shut eyes.

With my free hand, I blocked my eyes, still keeping them shut.

"You're so silly. I wish I had my phone to record this." He squeezed my shoulder, causing me to jump. "Trust me, Lisa, this is the closest you'll get to dead people. Open your eyes and woman up."

Sensing the calmness in his voice, I trusted him in that moment. And, I opened my eyes slowly. It took a long time for them to adjust to the dark. I gulped when he swayed the flashlight side to side.

There were cracked head stones, dead flowers and weeds coming through the ground. Even the trees looked lifeless. No ghosts. No zombies.

I still wanted to leave as fast as possible anyway. Only Bentley would want to teach me a life lesson on a chilly, windy night. The wind howled like the Hocus Pocus witches were riding their brooms near our ears.

"Do you promise I won't come across dead people."

He smirked. "Absolutely."

I went back to not trusting him again. We remained quiet, walking the rest of the way to the curvy back road that led to the Haunted Fairgrounds.

People! My excitement didn't last long. My brother's obnoxious friends approached us. Bentley let go of my hand. I could feel the sweat on my left palm.

"Aren't you the best big brother ever," big ear Sam teased, imitating my high-pitched voice.

I blushed, hiding my hands behind my back.

"Shut up, Sam." My brother playfully shoved him. "You know how it is. The 'rents wouldn't let me get out of watching her tonight."

Light green eyes Nathan asked me, " Does this mean you're getting drunk with us and playing the Ouija board in the cemetery?"

The group laughed as I glanced over at my brother. I frowned. I was supposed to be collecting lots and lots of candy, not being bullied by a bunch of immature boys.

Before long, our stupid tour started. I held on to Bentley's arm the entire time, my eyes aimed at the yellow hay. I didn't want to see people painted white looking like ghosts. I definitely didn't want to see anyone in scary masks. My heart couldn't take it.

I felt a tap on my back. "It's over. Open your eyes," Bentley whispered. "Thanks for embarrassing me in front of my friends, wimp."

"I'm sorry."

"Whatever."

I heard a loud buzzing sound coming from the abandoned farmhouse directly behind us. We all turned our heads to see what was going on. The wooden door crept open. A bloody guy in overalls, wearing a straw hat, began chasing us. He held a saw, pointing it at us.

We were gonna die!

My brother quickly picked me up, and everyone sprinted down the field. The crazy farmer laughed. Holding on to Bentley's thick neck, I had a clear view of the crazy farmer's eyes growing wider and wider.

At a dead end, the crazy farmer stopped in his tracks. "Hope you enjoyed the Haunted Fairgrounds. Come back next year." He tipped his hat, turned off the saw, then jogged back towards the farmhouse.

"That was awesome!" Sam grinned like a serial killer.

Sweat fell from my forehead as I squeezed my brother tightly.

"It's okay, Lisa, that was part of the tour. I promise it's over."

His promises meant diddly squat.

"Are you guys coming with us to pick up candy from the store? I have to pretend like we went trick-or-treating," my brother asked.

No one responded.

"What's your problem?"

I felt my brother shift his upper body to look at whatever made his friends speechless. Bentley set me on the ground, my feet wobbly among the uneven dry grass.

I spun around, grabbing hold of Bentley's hand again. I couldn't believe my eyes. A man in normal clothing hung from a tree. His body dangled, swaying side to side as the wind picked up. I held my nose once it started to smell like cow manure.

"I'm scared," I whimpered.

"What are you scared of? Of course this dude is part of the Halloween prop."

I stared into the man's lifeless eyes. His face was blue, but it could've been from the cold. His body was bloated, but he could've just been fat. None of this explained the crows lining up on the tree branch though.

"Can we go?" I pleaded.

The next morning, that man's bugged eyes still haunted my memory. Bentley hadn't made fun of me when I asked to sleep on his bedroom floor. In fact, he had kept the lights on. It didn't stop him from threatening me though. I promised never to say where we really were Halloween night.

Me, him, Mom, and Dad sat in the kitchen, eating breakfast. I avoided eye contact with Bentley until he kicked my leg under the table.

I yelped, rubbing my sore spot. I glanced at my brother, who was busy reading the local newspaper. He ended up tossing it to me.

"No horsing around," Dad said.

"Leave them be. It's a good thing that they're reading up on current events." Mom smiled and kissed Dad on the cheek.

I returned my attention to the front page of the paper. It read: _Local Man Murdered on Halloween Night--The visitors of the popular Haunted Fairgrounds came across a surprise at the end of the tour. Many thought it was a Halloween prop, but the employees of the tourist attraction confirmed that the man hanging from the tree was Clifford May, age 22. He volunteered to be the crazy farmer during the night. The question becomes who killed Mr. May and posed in his costume the entire night? Any witnesses please come forward._

*****

**Yawatta Hosby resides in the eastern panhandle** of West Virginia. She teaches creative writing through the Adult Community Education Program, and she enjoys connecting with other writers through blogging. She's always had a fascination with psychology, so she likes to focus on the inner-struggles within her characters. Yawatta is also an avid reader, favorite genres: mystery, thriller, horror, and women's fiction

**Website:** http://yawattahosby.wordpress.com

#  Becoming Celine: A Night Touched Prequel

By Maegan Provan

Manhattan, New York City, New York

May, 2012

I yawned loudly as I walked home from practice. Lately, my sleep was getting disrupted by incredibly vivid dreams and excruciating headaches. No matter what I did, I just couldn't seem to shake them. Visions of a young woman brutally killing people and drinking their blood haunted me every time I closed my eyes. I had tried to talk to my mom about it, but she blamed my habit of reading too many vampire novels and eating spicy food late at night. Of course, Mom found it easy to blame everything on my habits. The sky was turning an orangey pink, and the street lights were starting to turn on. I was definitely late getting home. As I turned the corner, I ran head first into a young man. I fell backwards and landed on my butt.

"I am so sorry." I grabbed my bag and pulled it close to me.

"It's okay." I could hear the smile in his voice. "This is New York, it happens."

I sheepishly looked up at him, trying to force a smile. I was slightly taken aback by his appearance. The man looked like he had stepped out of the pages of a magazine and on to the street in front of me. His smile was almost hypnotizing. He reached out his hand to help me up and I hesitated before accepting it.

"Thank you," I mumbled as I threw my messenger bag back over my shoulder.

"Are you alright, at least?" Genuine concern showed on his face. "I'm Keith, by the way."

"Celine." I shrugged and looked at the ground. We stood there awkwardly for a moment. My mind fluttered off into a fantasy world where this handsome guy was a knight and he rescued me from the evil monsters that lived in the cracks in the sidewalk. A buzz in my pocket shocked me back into reality. Pulling it from my pocket, I saw my mom's face glaring back at me. "Um, I have to go."

"Oh," he said, sounding deflated. "I was hoping to take you to get coffee or something, to make up for running into you."

I paused and looked up at him, my mouth agape. Was he seriously asking me out on a date? My phone buzzed again and I ignored the call. "You know what? I'd like that."

Mom would just have to get over me being late home. I mean, I had finally turned eighteen. I was an adult. If a cute guy wanted to buy me a coffee, I couldn't exactly say 'no.' He smiled at me again and I felt my knees turn to jelly. As we walked he talked about being an artist and trying to make a go of the New York scene. It was so cool. Being in a school uniform I couldn't exactly lie about what I did with my time, but I was graduating soon so I wouldn't be stuck in it for much longer. I was practically out in the real world.

We entered the coffee house a few minutes later. Keith ordered for both of us and led me to a secluded table at the back of the room. Throwing himself over the chair he looked as though he was posing for a magazine. I tried to make myself small in the chair not wanting to draw attention to the fact that this Adonis of a man was being seen with me.

"So what do you do at your school? I think most of the other kids were out of hours, right?" He picked at a piece of lint on his shirt.

I cringed at the word 'kid.' I wasn't a kid any more. "I play volleyball. Some of the other seniors and I are trying to make sure we keep up with our practices so that when we get into college, we're not struggling."

"I get that." He nodded. "I think one can never hone their craft too much. It's like with my art. I try to doodle, sketch, paint, you know, do _something_ , all the time so I don't lose my touch."

"That is really cool," I gushed.

"I'd like to think so anyway." He smirked.

"So you said you'd moved to New York for art; where are you from?" I rested my chin in my hand, trying not to look too obvious.

"Washington, originally. I lived in Ohio for a while, too, but everyone always talks about the art in New York."

"I never really thought of New York's art scene being much different than any other big city."

"Two lattes for Keith," the barista shouted from the counter.

"That's us." He shoved the seat back and walked over to the counter. I tried desperately to keep my mind from fluttering off again. My phone started buzzing in my pocket again. Knots began to form in my stomach. My parents were going to be so pissed.

Keith sauntered back over to the table, handing me one of the cups. "I've been hanging out here a bit the last few days. Their coffee is pretty awesome."

"Yeah, my friends and I have come here a few times after school when we needed to do some major cramming for finals." I took a sip out of my cup.

"Are you graduating soon?" He began to drum a nonsensical beat against the side of his cup.

"In about a month." I nodded.

We continued our stilted conversation for quite some time. I worried that I was making things awkward by trying to keep cool. He seemed not to mind. Even if he did, I appreciated him not pointing out my awkwardness. After finishing our coffees, he offered to walk me home and apologize to my parents for my tardiness.

"You really don't have to." I blushed. "I mean, I'll probably get grounded anyway, so it might only make things worse."

"Well, at least let me walk you to the front of your building." He stretched as he stood up, exposing his well-shaped abs. I flushed a little and resisted the urge to fan myself. He was so cute.

"I think that would be okay," I stammered.

Placing his hand lightly on my back, we walked out of the café and down the street towards my building. He brought up his art again, rambling on about he was trying to convey a message to question religion and why the masses were just victims of consumerism. I nodded along like I understood, but it honestly made no real sense.

About a block away from my building, a man forced his way between Keith and I, wrapping his hand around my throat and began to pull me down the street. I tried to scream, but his strong hand nearly crushed my windpipe. My vision began to blur but I could make out Keith running behind us. I clawed at the new man's hand, but blacked out before I could break free.

I woke up some time later, chained to a concrete pillar in a dimly lit room. My eyes tried to adjust to the darkness, and I could barely make out my surroundings. The sound of cars whizzing by floated into the room from some unknown source. Fear crept over me and I began to shake. What was going to happen to me?

"Keith," I called out, hoping he was attempting to save me that very moment. "Keith!"

"Keith is dead," a sinister sounding male voice answered.

"What?" My voice caught in my throat. The monster of a man kidnapped me and killed my potential new boyfriend.

"Trust me when I say ' _boyfriend_ ' was not his top priority with you." A shadow moved around one of the stacks of boxes and I was faced with my assailant. He was tall with broad shoulders and dark eyes. His lips were pulled up on one side in a smirk. "Besides, you have a much greater path ahead, Celine."

I froze. "H-how do you know my name?"

"I know a lot of things." He tapped at his temple. "For instance, I know that you are going to play a part in my war. You are very strong; you just don't see it in yourself."

"I'm not exactly the military type." I struggled against the chains holding me in place.

"Perhaps not yet, but I am going to give you a gift." He approached me, a full smile spread across his face.

The man reached out and stroked his hand across my cheek. I pulled back, trying to avoid his touch. He grabbed my jaw and pulled my head to the side, exposing my neck. His lips brushed the sensitive skin there and goosebumps rose along my arms. I shook and closed my eyes. I had watched enough television to know what was supposed to happen next. Allowing my thoughts to wander, I vowed that I would make it through this terrible situation, no matter what the cost. Except, what he did next was something I never expected.

He sank his teeth into the nape of my neck and a shot of fire ran up the side of my face. I screamed and tried to pull away but he just bit down harder. Tears welled up and poured down my face as I begged him to stop. The longer he stayed attached to my neck the more tired I felt. As my thoughts began to slow and my body began to fail, I thought about my books in my bedroom. Vampires were real. Of course, I had never really considered the idea of being killed by one. My imagination had always played it out as a romantic option that a handsome stranger would give me. I never considered that there wouldn't be an option. All at once he pulled away. Through my blurred vision, I could make out him ripping the skin on his forearm. He held his arm up to my mouth, and pressed the wet skin to my lips.

"Drink, Celine," he urged. I was too weak to pull away. The coppery taste filled my mouth and I drank. After a couple of seconds I gathered enough strength and I pushed his arm away and glared at him.

"If you've given me Hepatitis or something, I will find you and ki-" My threat was cut off by pain rippling across my body. My stomach felt like it was eating its way up my throat. I could feel my back arch further than it should have, causing my arms to nearly come out of their sockets and the thick chain to tear at my skin.

"I know this pain is terrible now, but soon you will be changed. That's what you dreamt about, right? Living forever and finding that perfect immortal life. Your journey is a long one but your gift will help you." He placed one hand on my forehead and the other grabbed my left wrist. "You are going to be special. Use your gift to find her. She is the way to your destiny."

There was a loud crack of electricity and I jolted. Darkness came immediately and I sagged into the chains.

***

I woke up on the damp dirty floor of a strange subbasement. My whole body ached and I quickly recalled the events of the evening, up to the coffee shop with... What was his name? I grabbed my head as I sat up and was immediately confronted with a bright white light emitting from my wrist.

"Holy crap!" I jumped back. "What the heck is that?"

I held my wrist up to my face and rubbed at the mark, trying to see if it would come off. When it didn't, I started to panic. Bile built up in my throat and I rolled over on to my knees. After the contents of my stomach had all made their way onto the floor, I sat back on my knees, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. That's when the thirst kicked in. The burning in my throat was more intense than I had ever felt. I really had to get home.

Slowly standing up for fear of a broken bone, I walked carefully around in a small circle. Satisfied that nothing seemed to hurt too terribly, I stretched. At least I only had a couple of minor cuts and bruises. I scratched my head and looked around for my things. My messenger bag sat on a large wooden crate next to a concrete pillar. Walking over to it, I heard a soft groan and I shot my head around. The groan was followed by a loud cough. Placing my hands on the crate for support, I angled myself to look around it. There in a crumpled heap was Keith. His name returned to me the moment I saw his face.

"Oh my God, Keith!" I ran around the crate and landed on my knees in front of him. He looked terrible. Both of his eyes were swollen shut and blood seeped out of cuts all over his face. His body was twisted and contorted like a Picasso painting.

"Celine," he croaked. "Are you okay?"

"I-I'm fine." I brushed some of his thick curly hair out of his face. "I'm going to call the police okay? I can't move you, but everything is going to be fine."

He tried to nod in acknowledgement but was sent into a coughing fit. Drops of blood flew out of his mouth and landed on my cheek. Their warmth seemed to heat up my cheek and I froze, wide-eyed. The tangy scent hit my nose and I could feel myself losing my senses. Keith groaned again and let his head fall to one side, exposing the nape of his neck. Before I could stop myself I jumped on top of him and pulled his broken body to me. He let out a raspy scream as I bit into his flesh.

The blood filled my mouth and instantly quenched my thirst. He struggled slightly before giving up and collapsing. As I drank I could feel myself getting stronger. The bright white glow emitting from my wrist burned bright like a spotlight, illuminating the dark room.

When I had my fill, I let his body go and sat back. I let out a sigh of contentment and hiccupped. Then it hit me. All of the scenes from those stupid teenage melodramatic novels came flooding to me. I was a vampire. My strange dreams and odd interest suddenly were justified.

"Cool," I marveled. I looked down at Keith's broken body and realized what I had done. "Oh."

I slowly backed off of him and wiped my mouth on the back of my hand. What was I going to do? I certainly couldn't go back home looking the way that I did. Pacing back and forth, my footsteps echoed off of the walls. I had to think of a way to make this work. I remembered Keith talking about his apartment that he rented by himself and I decided that it would be the perfect hide out until I could figure out what to do next.

"Sorry." I kneeled down in front of him once more and dug through his pockets. Producing a key and a wallet, I was satisfied that I had a place to go. I slipped the items into my messenger back and threw it over my shoulder. Now to just find a way out of the room.

***

Somewhere under New York City, New York

November, 2012

I had been strapped to the table for hours at that point. Long spiraling chords attached to monitors twisted out of different receptors on my head. The metal straps that held me down wrapped tightly around my torso and my hips. My arms were outstretched and they had managed to secure my wrists in such a way that they were still able to stick dozens of needles into them.

A man wearing scrubs and a face mask approached me, a large needle in his hand. Barely looking at me, he slid the point into the opened end of the drip change and pushed on the plunger. I struggled and growled at him as he did so. Turning away from me, he motioned to one of the unmasked assistants and nodded. She nodded back in response and approached one of the large computer stations.

"We're going to start the questioning as soon as he arrives, is that understood?" she snapped at the technician typing away. He stopped typing and crossed his arms.

A door at the far end of the room swung open and a few more people entered the room. One of them had slicked back dirty blonde hair. He wore an army green t-shirt and dark cargo pants. Digging into one of the many pockets, he produced a small tape recorder and set it above my head. Another of the new arrivals set a camera on a tripod across from me and gave the man the thumbs up.

The man reached across me to examine one of the opaque tubes. As he did so, the scent of leather and spice filled my nose and I wanted to vomit. I tried not to show fear, but my eyes widened in horror as he looked back me. The man had been the source of my pain and misery for the last several months and I couldn't do anything to stop him.

"The chemical should take affect momentarily," the masked man said. "You can start your questioning now, but you won't get any real answers until then."

"I remember how it works, Davidson. Now, get over to the monitor and keep a close eye on the waves."

"Yes, Sir." The masked man, Davidson, nodded quickly and stepped behind me.

"Now, Celine, we're going to start again. You're going to dig down into that brain of yours and you're going to tell me everything you see." The scary man spoke with a calming tone, though it did nothing to soothe me.

I knew better than to respond. I looked up at the bright lights that hung over head and concentrated on her. On the one like me. I could see her returning home from another fancy party and walk into her bathroom. She shed her pretty dress and all of her accessories. Reaching out she turned the tap for her shower and paused. After a brief moment, she stepped under the water and let it run down her head.

" _Help!"_ I cried out to her.

She jumped back in surprise, looking around the tiled enclosure. She stuck her head out of the shower, searching around the fancy bathroom. "Hello?"

I concentrated hard enough to project my surrounding to her. She glanced around the cavernous room, quickly covering herself. She watched all of the people moving about and monitoring me. Her eyes landed on me and her mouth fell open. None of them could see her. But I needed her to understand that everything was very real.

"Help me," I whispered.

*****

If you enjoyed this story you might like to read more of Maegan's writing. Such as...

Celine (The Night Touched Chronicles Book 1)

by Maegan Provan

The Night Touched haven't been around in centuries. Created by the original vampire, the "First Born," the Night Touched were made to create the bloodlines which all modern day vampires come from. Their unique powers and colorful marks set them apart from other vampires.

Harper Kemp had long believed that she was the last Night Touched in existence. With her friends, Lily Buchannan and Jason Howard, she has learned to accept it. Until one night when everything changed.

A plea from her dreams and a forbidden romance, Harper sets out on a path of discovery; not only is she not alone, she's about to face her worst nightmare- a devastatingly handsome slayer named Silas with a finger on her non existent pulse.

*****

**Maegan Provan is a New Adult/ Urban Fantasy** writer working on her first series _The Night Touched Chronicles_ and the miniseries _Becoming Night Touched_. She is currently based in Texas with her husband and her dog. When not writing, she spends a lot of time binge watching old television shows on Netflix, goofing off on Facebook, and playing PC games like Guild Wars 2. Maegan is a huge fan of Joss Whedon, Cassandra Clare, and Laurell K. Hamilton, drawing inspiration from their work.

**Website:** www.maeganprovan.com

#  The Mirror

By C.E. Cason

I was walking home late one night when my "sixth sense" started to kick in. I had stayed at work late, finishing up some reports my boss had asked me to write. They were a pain, but I finished them. I had decided to walk home that night to stretch out my legs after sitting at the desk all day, but got only halfway to my apartment when it started raining. You can imagine how I felt about that. It was about this time that I started to get the feeling that someone was watching me. I would turn around every once in a while and look around, you know, to see if anyone was there. Well, I never saw anyone. In fact, this street that should have had at least cars driving down it, if not pedestrians walking around, was completely dead.

I was starting to get a bit more than paranoid when a car finally turned down the street. I don't know what possessed me to do this, but I flagged it down. Turned out the driver was a friend of mine, so I got a ride home. I made a comment about being unprepared for the weather when I got in, but my friend didn't reply. They seemed preoccupied and didn't want to talk, so I kept quiet after that. I figured it had something to do with work. I will say that my friend looked really bad; pale, with bloodshot eyes and rumpled clothes. I wondered what was wrong, but didn't ask. My friend dropped me off at my apartment and left without saying a word or giving me more than a glance. I shrugged it off and went up to my apartment. The closer I got to the front door, the feeling of being watched grew stronger. I began walking so fast that I was nearly running, but when I touched the doorknob, the feeling just vanished. I laughed it off as the remains of the paranoia from earlier, then drank a shot of peppermint schnapps and went to bed.

At work the next morning I learned that my friend had died during the night. Everyone said that my friend had died in a car wreck around ten o'clock, but I knew that was impossible since I was with that person at eleven thirty. I decided not to say anything about that; someone must have gotten the time of death wrong. I went to the funeral a couple days later, and a couple days after that I learned that I was named in the will. My friend had left me a very large, antique mirror.

Unfortunately, I knew which one my friend meant. It was a huge, godforsaken, ugly, Victorian, gilded mirror. The thing was so old that the glass had that smoky look mirrors sometimes get, but other than that, my friend had taken care of it. The gold leaf was intact, and there wasn't a scratch to be seen anywhere on the glass. In fact, there wasn't a flaw anywhere on the mirror, which surprised me. It took me two bus rides and a short walk through a questionable neighborhood to claim the mirror, but I finally got the monstrosity home and leaned it against the wall in the entrance hall. I figured I'd do something with it in the morning.

I sat for a while, sipping a glass of wine and remembering the first time I saw the mirror. It was at a Halloween party my friend was giving. I was drunk off my ass, couldn't hardly see straight, when my friend took me into an almost empty room to see this "really neat" mirror. Even drunk I could tell it was a god-awful ugly thing. So I stood there looking at this reflection of me dressed like a monk all in black and laughing. I told my friend it was no BFD, and staggered back out to the party. It was later, when I was just on the brink of sleep, that I remembered I was supposed to be an Arab sheik.

Anyway, the day after I got the mirror to my apartment I called an antiques dealer to find out if the mirror was worth anything. The dealer said that there wasn't anything like it in any of the catalogs, but from my description of it nobody would want it, anyway. Big help that was. It stayed in the hall for a few days, but the more I looked at it, the more I learned to like it. So, I dragged it to my room and hung it on the wall across from the bed. It looked totally out of place, but I left it there. I didn't sleep very well that night.

The next couple of days got progressively worse. It started out as just a couple of mishaps in the office, and very restless nights. I even yelled at my secretary, which was really no big deal anyway. I don't like my secretary. Finally, I started yelling at my boss. I don't like my boss either, you understand. Well, I got suspended from my job until I could return "with a better attitude." That was fine with me. I needed a vacation.

That night I stayed up late, drinking schnapps and reading T.E.D. Klein. That was some scary shit. Around midnight I got up to go to the bathroom, and as I was returning to the bed I looked at the mirror. I didn't see myself.

In fact, I didn't see _anything_ reflected in the mirror. It just looked smoky. I thought maybe the alcohol was doing its job. After staring at it for a while, I realized that there _was_ a reflection in the mirror. It was just a shadow, kind of a blob; I figured that the mirror was so old that it just didn't reflect properly anymore. I went to bed and slept a little. I had a terrible nightmare about a shadowy figure with a bloody knife hunting me through the city streets. I didn't sleep well that night.

The next day was cold and rainy, and since I didn't have to go to work I stayed in my apartment all day, reading and watching old TV shows. Sometime during the day I went to look in the mirror. It was reflecting everything it should have, but the shadow was still there. I knew I hadn't dreamed all that not-reflecting business! I noticed that the shadow had a definite shape now. Still, I put it in the back of my mind. I didn't really want to think about it.

That night there was thick cloud cover obscuring the sky, so there was no moonlight. Normally I would leave the shades up on the window and let the moon be my nightlight. This time I used a real nightlight. At midnight, straight up, I woke from a nightmare that left me feeling that I was being watched. I hate that feeling. I went to the bathroom and on my way back, as I passed the mirror, the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. I was definitely being watched. I looked at the mirror and saw that the shadow definitely looked like a person in a hooded cloak, like what I always imagined a monk would look like. I could see hands in the image, but no face. Somewhere in the back of my head I could vaguely hear someone laughing.

I moved to position myself directly in front of the mirror. I reached out and touched it, but it was just cold glass, like it should have been. As my hand rested on the glass, the shadow reached out its hand. It was a white, deathly looking hand with long, thin fingers and sharp nails. This hand reached through the glass and wrapped its fingers around my wrist. The moment it touched me was pure ecstasy. I felt it in every particle of my being. The ecstatic feeling drained me, and I knew I was going to pass out. Before I completely succumbed to the darkness, I saw a flash of light in the shadow where eyes would have been.

I woke up in my bed the next morning. Everything was as it should have been, except that there were still clouds in the sky and I felt terribly weak. I thought about the fantastic dream I had the night before and looked at the mirror. Not a flaw. The glass was clear, reflected everything, and the shadow was gone. The boss called me to see if I was returning to work. I was too weak to even contemplate getting out of bed, so I told the boss to piss off, just so I could get off the phone. The boss slammed the phone down so hard my ears were ringing.

That night, the same thing happened. At midnight, straight up, I woke up, went to the mirror, and noticed that the shadow was back. I'd hoped it would be. I could vaguely see eyes in the darkness where a face should have been. I touched the mirror, and the figure within it touched me. Again I felt the pure pleasure of the touch, and again was overcome with it. The next day, I had a little trouble with my sight, but didn't worry much about it. The next time I saw the shadow, the eyes in it were a brighter, more defined, and all too familiar. They were mine.

These midnight encounters started over six months ago. The touch is like a drug; I must have it. I've long since returned to work, but every day someone tells me how worn out I look, and suggests that I take a vacation. How can I explain to them what it's like each night? I just can't do without it. Each time I touch the mirror, it takes a little more of me. I get weaker, and the image in the mirror gets stronger, more defined. It won't let me go. I understand it now. The question is, who gets the mirror next?

*****

**Ms. Cason was born "up North,"** but grew up in West Texas' hub city, surrounded by cotton farms, cattle ranches, and college co-eds. Although she loves her work in the accounting world, she sometimes tries her hand at nature photography and has a decent eye for it. Ms. Cason has written what she calls "bits 'n' pieces" of stories since she was a teenager, but this is her first published work. She hopes to complete at least one novel someday, and often wonders how difficult it would be to write a screenplay.

#  The Cat and the Coin

By Sean Morain

It is well known among the leading feline scholars that cats had possessed magical powers since time immemorial, perhaps even as far back as their creation by the Golden Lion. The law as laid down by the elders stated that no magic was to be used around humans, as they typically did not possess magic of their own, poor things, and they tended to be jealous or fearful of such things.

Salem, or Hope Dreamer as he was known to those few he had trusted with his true name, had subtle abilities and used them cautiously for the most part. The exception to this practice was the reason for his extremely close bond with Chris, his human charge and friend. Although he could never allow Chris to remember them, his times conversing and "hanging out" with Chris in his dreams had always been his favorite nights.

This evening, like most evenings, Salem waited patiently for Chris to arrive home from his job at the office. He had helped Chris several times by fighting his nightmares about that place, and his boss specifically. He had begun to gain a great sense of satisfaction whenever he knocked the sharklike teeth out of the dream figment's grinning face. He would replace the nightmare with a calming dream of the two of them relaxing in a sunbeam or chasing butterflies in a meadow, both of which Chris rolled his eyes at but would cheerfully join in after joking about being Salem's kitten or his "padawan"

Salem glanced out the window and caught sight of a familiar face in the front yard. An orange striped tabby called Tiger by most humans who knew him was waiting patiently at the edge of the yard. Salem nodded slightly, laid down in a comfortable position, and pushed his spirit out of his body. He glanced down to make sure his body appeared to be simply sleeping, then flew unseen and immaterial through the window to where Tiger awaited him. Tiger caught sight of Salem as he got closer, stood and stretched, then sat down with his tail curled around his paws.

"Greetings, Tiger." Salem began, grinning as Tiger rolled his eyes at hearing his human-given name. He and Tiger had become friends since Tiger had been selected by the Parliament as an additional protector for the neighborhood, but that didn't mean they didn't enjoy teasing each other when given the opportunity. Tiger's experience with his "burdens", as most cats referred to the humans they protected, had started out badly and he had never fully trusted humans again. Salem gave him credit for being honorable and doing his job anyway, but he felt that Tiger would be an even better Warden if he truly cared about his charges.

Tiger sighed, lowering his eyes. Salem could swear he could hear him gritting his teeth, except that was a human tendency. His orange fur was bristled and his tail was swishing in agitated fashion. Salem moved close enough to touch him had he been tangible and reached out a paw in friendship.

"What is it, Shadow Hunter?" he asked, using Tiger's true name in hopes of snapping him out of his funk. Tiger was understandably proud of his considerable skill as a Warden, and his true name reflected his proactive methods for dealing with the supernatural dangers all cats faced in defense of their humans.

"I'm sorry, Hope Dreamer." Tiger said, shaking himself and settling into a much calmer demeanor. "I need your help. Old Mike is dead, and I need to know what happened." His eyes got a dangerous glint that promised retribution on anyone or anything that dared harm one of his charges. Tiger might not have much love for humans, but he had enough pride in his territory to make up for that lack. He never talked about it, but Salem was certain that Tiger's first charges had not been good people.

Salem nodded slightly, then turned as he saw Tiger stiffen and back up involuntarily. Chris was plodding slowly up the front walk with his briefcase hanging loosely from one hand. It had clearly been a bad day at work, and he knew from experience that Chris' nightmares would likely be intense tonight. He looked back at Tiger and grimaced.

"It looks like it will be a busy night for me, Shadow Hunter." he sighed, unwilling to let either of his friends down. "Wait for me at the meeting spot and I will help you find out what happened to Old Mike. It may be a few sleeps until I can get there."

Tiger nodded and sighed, obviously annoyed at Salem's hesitation to leave his human. He gave Salem a sidelong glance before sauntering into the bushes and out of sight. Salem turned and careened back into his body just in time to hear Chris fumbling with his keys at the door. He rushed downstairs, slowing his pace at the last minute so as not to appear too excited to see his human return home. That sort of thing, cats had decided, was beneath them. Leave it to dogs to be happy to see their humans, while cats reminded them how valuable they were to the household by their aloof and regal bearing.

Well, most cats had decided that. Though he would never tell any other cat, especially not Tiger, Salem truly enjoyed meeting Chris at the door when he came home from work. He considered it his first line of defense on days like this. If he could help Chris relax right away, his dreams would be much more calm and easier to handle, which made for a much less busy night. Fighting nightmares was satisfying work, but it was almost never an easy task. By their very nature, dreams tended not to follow rules, and hostile ones doubly so.

Salem realized this would not be an easy night, as Chris barely acknowledged his presence upon entering the door, simply dropping his briefcase in the middle of the living room floor rather than placing it on the table as he usually did. Then he walked into his room and flopped facedown onto the bed. Salem trotted into the room after him, hopped onto the bed, and laid down on Chris' pillow, purring loudly and rubbing against his face.

"Hey buddy." Chris whispered as he absently stroked Salem's silky fur from his ears down to his tail. "How do you always know when I've had a bad day?"

"Silly human, don't you know that what you don't say tells me all I need to know about what kind of day you've had?" Salem asked, knowing Chris didn't fully understand. "If you had a tail, you would have knocked over every lamp from here to the door. I know you don't understand me, but I understand you."

Chris rolled into his back and scratched between Salem's ears, laughing as his eyes nearly closed and he settled down into the crook of his arm, purring loudly. Within a sleep, Chris was smiling contentedly and watching something on the TV. Salem knew from experience that this did not necessarily mean there would be no nightmares, but it was a step in the right direction. With a final contented rub against Chris' face, Salem turned and hopped down off the bed and slinked into the living room where his favorite "napping" place was.

Salem settled into the cat bed next to the fireplace, unlit as yet since it was still early autumn, and pushed his spirit from his body once again. He rocketed intangibly through the front door and arrived at the meeting spot, an old abandoned warehouse toward the middle of town, to find Tiger pacing back and forth with the tip of his tail twitching slightly. Salem was certain that if he had arrived a nap or two later, Tiger would have been seriously annoyed. If only Tiger knew how to tell time on human clocks, which kept track of sleeps, or "hours"as the humans called them, he might be more patient. Then again, it didn't seem to work that way with humans, so maybe it wouldn't help.

"I'm here, Shadow Hunter." he announced as he floated up to his friend. "Where is he?"

Tiger led him around the building and to an alley a few blocks away where the homeless man they called Old Mike lay sprawled among a pile of trash, looking almost peaceful in death. Tiger bristled anew as he surveyed the scene for the second time. He had always had a soft spot for Old Mike, most likely due to their similar lifestyles. Old Mike was the closest human equivalent to an alley cat that Salem had ever seen, and Tiger had often spoken of him somewhat fondly. Salem circled the area, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Something was not right here, of that he was certain, but he couldn't quite pinpoint where the feeling was coming from. On his third circle, he spotted it: a small disk of unidentified metal lay in Old Mike's filthy hand, and it was emitting waves of pure malevolence that made Salem's ears lay flat against his head.

"Tiger, that's it..." he gritted as he backed up and pointed a paw at the object. "In his hand. I'm feeling nothing but evil from it. I'm sure it's what killed him. Be careful, but get rid of it." He began to breathe more easily as Tiger deftly swatted the thing out of Old Mike's hand and into an open sewer grate.

"That takes care of that." Tiger remarked as he walked back into the alley and lightly placed a paw on Old Mike's limp arm. Salem was certain that there were tears in Tiger's eyes as he slowly turned to stare into the distance. "Thank you for your help, Hope Dreamer. I owe you a favor. Spend some time with your human now. You never know how long you have with him."

"You're welcome, Shadow Hunter. I just wish I could have helped more." Salem said as he snapped himself back to his body and awoke again in the living room. He could still hear the TV, so he trotted back to the bedroom to spend more time with Chris.

***

The dreaded human holiday known as Halloween was fast approaching, and Salem could feel the tension rising among the Parliament of Cats as final preparations were being made to secure their territories and burdens against the inevitable spiritual intrusions. Every year, as the spirit world moved closer to the physical plane, the cats had their paws full fighting supernatural creatures of every stripe. Every year, there were some losses of both cats and humans to these threats. This year the Parliament was making preparations early, but there was still little headway being made simply due to the nature of its membership. The humans had a term, "herding cats", to describe exactly such a situation. Salem didn't know who had come up with the saying, but he wondered just how much that person had known about the feline heirarchy to make it so accurate.

Since Salem's house was a part of Tiger's assigned territory, it and all in it fell under his protection. Normally this would cause a dispute, but Salem had to admit that Tiger was a much more skilled Warden than he was. They all had their specialties, and though Salem dabbled in all the spheres of feline magic, he was a Seeker through and through. His spiritual senses were every bit as powerful as Tiger's spiritual muscle, and they made a great team because they recognized this fact.

This year, Salem was glad for the extra protection. Something was terribly wrong in the aether, and though he had yet to track it down, there was an eerie familiarity about it. He hunted through the aether nearly all the time that Chris was at work lately, only to return with no new clues and so spiritually drained that he could barely calm Chris' dreams each night. Whatever was out there was toying with him like he had often watched Tiger do with whatever small animal was to be the sacrifice for a ward he was about to empower. He had never looked at the situation from the perspective of the prey before, but now that he had, he was even more determined not to be the hunted. The night before Halloween, he finally decided to call in the favor that Tiger owed him.

"Shadow Hunter, I need your help." he began as his astral body hovered at Tiger's side. "There is something extremely elusive that I have been tracking through the aether, but I have not been able to locate its anchor. I believe it is hunting me, or perhaps Chris. Would you stay near my house tomorrow night as your favor to me? I know you have more people to protect than I do, but I have been unable to see beyond tomorrow night for days. I don't know what that means, and it terrifies me."

"I had just about convinced myself you were immune to fear, Hope Dreamer." Tiger said as he began to groom himself. "I do have many burdens to protect, but because of our friendship and your favor to me, I will help you."

***

The next night was hell for Salem. He had never liked waiting, and the feeling of some unidentified thing out there stalking around the premises while humans of all ages ran around in costumes begging for treats set his every nerve ending on edge. For the dozenth time this evening, he glanced down at the yard where he knew Tiger waited impatiently for something to destroy. He had been extra temperamental since Old Mike's death by some unknown force, and he was hoping to vent his rage on something dark and supernatural. The fact that nothing had yet appeared after a wait of many sleeps had obviously not helped his mood.

"Salem, what's going on with you tonight?" Chris asked as Salem jumped at yet another mundane shadow moving across the yard. He berated himself internally even as his paws left the windowsill. Anything supernatural trying to cross into the yard would be glaringly obvious to both Tiger and himself, and he had no doubt that Tiger would come down on it like the Lion himself before it had gotten halfway to the house.

"You're worrying me, buddy." Chris said as he stroked Salem's ruffled fur and scratched his head and neck the way he knew always calmed him down. "Usually it's you helping me chill out. It feels a little weird to return the favor. Come on, buddy. Let's get some sleep before all the goblins start playing pranks around the neighborhood."

Salem patrolled the house half a dozen times through the night, checking every window and door to make sure they were secure. Nothing had threatened Chris or himself, though he still feel the uneasy feeling that something was out there waiting, perhaps even aware that Tiger waited in ambush for it. Chris had gone to bed two sleeps ago, and he knew Tiger had other obligations, so he reluctantly projected to Tiger's location to apologize for wasting his time.

"I'm sorry, Shadow Hunter." he began, his eyes downcast in shame. "It seems that nothing is going-" A loud hiss from Tiger interrupted his words, and he turned in time to see a dark cloudy shape ooze across the side yard directly toward Chris' room. He glanced back to see Tiger wrapping himself in the shadowy armor he used for doing battle with spirits, a menacing glint in his eyes.

"Get me in there or it out here!" he growled, savagely happy to finally have something to sink his claws and teeth into. Salem rocketed back to his body and scurried upstairs in time to see the loathsome thing pouring its unholy essence through the miniscule gap at the bottom of the window. He leaped onto the bed as it brushed an umbral tendril against Chris, who immediately went into the fitful spasms that accompanied his nightmares. Salem desperately cast his spirit into Chris' dream, prepared for the worst.

What he saw was indeed worse than he would have guessed. The cloudy shape was forming into a hybrid of a spider, snake, shark, and nearly every other thing ever featured in Chris' nightmares. Salem had only ever heard rumors of tulpas, but he knew that was what he now faced. Creatures born of belief and fueled by terror, they could only take on physical form through a sentient being's mind, which inevitably killed their erstwhile host. Waves of pure terror radiated from it, paralyzing Chris' dream self as it floated leisurely closer to touch him. Salem jumped in between them, blocking as much of its powerful aura as he could absorb.

"Chris, you need to wake up!" he called behind him as the tulpa bore down on him, lashing at him with tentacles that were growing more solid by the second. "Chris, get out of here while I hold it off!" He risked a glance back to where Chris was huddled in a corner, now reaching out toward him and yelling something, when a solid strike sent him flying into a row of lockers. He bounced off, rolled back to his feet, and sprang once again at the tulpa as it reoriented on Chris and began to advance again.

"Chris, run!" Salem yelled as he slammed once again into his opponent, clawing and biting furiously to no apparent effect. A flick from one of its pseudopods sent him flying again, but he sprang off the wall and planted himself firmly between his friend and their attacker.

"You can't have- Oof!" he said as another lash slammed into him, this time pinning him to the floor and crushing him as it came after Chris once again. His vision darkened as the horrid creature began to drain the vitality out of his spirit, but he refused to give up. Though it was like scratching at stone, he clawed desperately in an attempt to reach Chris before it did.

"Chris!" he gasped. "You have to wake up! You have to get away..." He groaned as Chris sagged against the wall and slid down into a fetal position, helpless as the terror inspired by the tulpa froze all rational thought from his mind.

A sudden burst of inspiration flashed through Salem's mind. He recalled that though they are created by human belief, tulpae feed on fear, human or otherwise. He had been giving it power even as he fought it. He focused his rage as he heaved upright, sending it sprawling on its half-formed limbs as he ran to Chris' side again, purring and rubbing against his hand. If he could only get Chris beyond the fear, they stood a chance.

The tulpa rose lazily, floating above the floor now, and began to reach out for them once again. It appeared content to devour both of them now, but Salem couldn't allow himself to think of what it would do with access to his magic. He rubbed his face against Chris' cheek even as the searing pain of the tulpa's touch shot through him again. He purred louder, trying to teach Chris, as it began to rip into his spirit and he felt his magic fading. Soon he wouldn't be able to sustain the dream and it would win.

"Salem?" Chris blinked as he opened his eyes and saw what was happening. The nightmarish thing was killing Salem, and somehow he knew that it was real and it would kill them both if he couldn't stop it. His sudden flash of anger beat it back just long enough for him to scoop Salem up and cradle him in his arms. "Salem, can you hear me? Please say something, buddy. Please don't be dead..."

"Don't... fear it..." Salem gasped, laying his paw on Chris' forehead. "Dream power... can hurt it... if you don't fear, padawan." With that, he fell limp in Chris' arms and began to fade from view. Chris turned with tears in his eyes as the horror closed in once again, but this time he wasn't afraid. He screamed a challenge as a blade of brilliant red energy appeared in his hand and he prepared to do battle.

***

Chris awoke with a start and looked wildly around the room for a moment before he caught sight of Salem laying next to his pillow, apparently sleeping peacefully. He reached out and scratched between his ears, which would normally cause him to purr almost instantly, but there was no response. He felt for a pulse, found none, and began to weep bitterly.

"Behind you!" yelled a familiar voice. Chris whirled to see the creature from his nightmare looming in front of the window just as a dark streak flew past his head and into its body, knocking it through the window. Time seemed to slow down as he saw a ghostly version of Salem ripping into a cloudy black mass as they both plummeted to the ground below. He reached the window just in time to see another cat, with fur that seemed to absorb all light, leap into the fray with a screech of absolute feline rage. Within seconds, there was nothing left of the creature but a few wisps of rapidly disappearing smoke.

Chris knelt on the floor beside where Salem lay, shaking him gently to wake him up, but nothing changed. He picked him up and held him in his arms, tears streaming down his face and soaking his dark fur.

"Hey, padawan." said a voice beside him, startling him out of his thoughts. He turned to see the same ghostly version of Salem that had saved him standing on the bed beside him. He gaped in shock as he padded silently over and laid down beside him. Chris reached out to touch him, but his hand passed right through his body.

"How are you here?" Chris managed to ask despite the shock. "Aren't you-?"

"Dead? Yeah. It seems so. But I asked for a little more time so I could say goodbye properly. I guess we don't get nine lives after all. First of all, thanks for being such a great friend, even if you are just a human. Second, I want you to take care of Tiger. He's the cat who helped me kill the tulpa, that cloud creature. He doesn't really trust humans, but he's been lost since Old Mike was killed. Also, you're going to start remembering things I made you forget in your dreams, all sorts of things about cats and magic. I gave you most of my power, so you're going to start seeing and dreaming things you can't explain. Life should be very interesting for you from now on. You can tell me all about it when you meet me on the other side. I'll be waiting to see you, padawan. "

With that, Salem's spirit form faded away for the final time, and Chris was left with nothing but his thoughts and tears welling up in his eyes.

"See you later, Hope Dreamer..." he whispered into the night.

*****

**I was born and raised in Tulsa, Oklahoma** and still call this eclectic city my home. I have a strong and firm stand in my faith and a passion for music. Animals have been a large part of my life and I've owned many dogs, cats, fish, birds, and mice. I love all animals and would love to own a dolphin if it was legal to do so. I love dragons and would definitely have one if they actually existed. I enjoy learning about the roles dragons play in oriental cultures. Dragon Quest was my first experience in the realm of role playing. Role playing has been a part of my life for more than 20 years and I've always had a knack for creating unusual characters. Branching into writing is something I've thought about doing for some time and this has been a fascinating journey for me.

#  The Leprechaun's Trick or Treat

By Terry Compton

Cheyenne Wilson stood in the empty school hall with her head leaning against the cool metal of her locker. The slump of her shoulders and bowed head screamed dejection and pain. With a sigh, she looked again at the piece of paper in her hand.

Seth Kane, the cute new boy in school, had given her this invitation to go to his Halloween party. _All the girls have been talking about how cute he is and how they'd like to go out with him. Now, I get an invitation that I want to say yes to, but I know that Dad would never let me go. The party doesn't start until 9:00 and won't be over until midnight. Seth was a little evasive about his parents being there, too._

I know this will be a big NO if I ask. Out of my three friends, Anna might get to go but Allisa and Mariah are in the same boat as me. No parental supervision, no party. Sometimes being fourteen sucks.

She sighed and grabbed two books out of her locker. Her hand went to the door to slam it shut when she heard the shuffling footsteps and the crude laughter of the three nitwits around the corner. _Can my day get any worse? I'm sure they'll step around here and hassle me. I may just deck them to relieve some of the frustrations._

Cheyenne eased the locker door shut and started to quietly slip away when she heard Timmy say, "I say it would be fun."

Jerome said, "It could get us into trouble. My parents are talking about getting a new Xbox for me for Christmas. I don't want to jeopardize that."

Bobby said, "I don't believe it actually works. I think it's an old wives tale."

Cheyenne stood listening, leaning a little closer to the corner. Timmy said, "No, you fill the paper bag with runny crap and then set it on the porch. Light it on fire, knock and run like crazy. She'll come out and stomp on the fire to put it out. Instant mess on her foot and leg. It'll be hilarious."

Bobby said, "What if she doesn't stomp it?"

"Then she has this nasty burning smell-generator. It'll stink up her whole house."

Jerome said, "I still don't know. What if old Mrs. Zavalda sees us and calls our parents or worse, the police?"

Timmy said, "We'll go crash that new retard's party. Everyone will swear we were there so who will believe her? Besides, anyone who lives in a creepy old house like that deserves to have a little stink to go with the looks."

Three lockers shut and footsteps shuffled closer to the corner. Cheyenne stood with her hand against her locker like she had just closed it. The three boys stepped around the corner and stopped talking. They formed a semi-circle around her.

Timmy said, "Look who we have here. Little Miss Goody Two Shoes. How come you're not dancing a jig or something?"

Cheyenne huffed her breath, "Why it's the school buffoons. What happened? Did your keeper forget to put your leashes on and lead you outside? Want me to call him to come lead you home so you don't get lost?"

Bobby said, "You think you're so smart. I should slap a hair lip on you and then knock it off."

Cheyenne said, "Get lost, all three of you. I'm not in the mood to mess with you. In about three seconds, there's going to be body parts flying around the hall here and they won't be mine."

The boys backed up a step. Cheyenne took a step toward them and they turned to walk away from her. All three had to call insults back at her as they strode away. Cheyenne stood with her fists and jaw clenched until they disappeared out of sight.

Waiting until she thought they would be on their way, her mind whirled. _It's not fair. They'll go terrorize that old lady and get to go to the party. I'd like to stomp them. No, that would get me in trouble. I wonder who I could tell. No one. It's my word against theirs and if someone knows, those idiots will just wait to do it later._

At last, Cheyenne trudged out of the school. A text came through to her phone. Looking down, she saw that her friends wanted to meet at her house to talk about the party. Her gait picked up as she answered the text.

Maybe one of them has a way we can go to the party. It's only ten days away.

***

An hour later, Cheyenne opened the door for her friends. Excited chatter greeted her ears. Soon giggles, laughter and the sound of friends' voices relieved some of the strain she had been feeling – until Anna brought up the party.

She talked excitedly about going and what they could do until she saw her friends' faces. Her voice stopped in mid-word. Anna asked, "What's the matter? Aren't you excited about going?"

Cheyenne said, "I didn't even ask. It's past my curfew and with no parental supervision, I'd just be asking for this long boring lecture."

Mariah and Allisa nodded their heads in agreement. Mariah said, "I might be grounded for even thinking of it. My parents might even put one of those ankle monitoring devices on me."

Allisa said, "Oh, Mariah, they wouldn't do that. Where would they get it?"

"Somewhere. I'm not taking the chance. I can't go so why ask?"

Gloom descended on the group. Anna absentmindedly picked up a toy from under the edge of Cheyenne's bed. It looked like a plastic ice cream cone with holes punched in the top. Shaking it, she felt a rattle and asked, "What's this thing?"

Cheyenne took it from her and spoke into the holes. Her voice came out quavery and spooky. "It's supposed to be a karaoke mike. I got it a long time ago."

All the girls giggled at the way her voice sounded. Suddenly, Cheyenne's eyes lit up. She said, "I think I might have something we could do and it would be a lot more fun than a party."

The girls' eyes turned to her waiting expectantly. Cheyenne leaned closer and whispered, "Just before I left school, I heard the yard apes talking about pulling a cruel prank on Mrs. Zavalda."

Allisa cut in, "What are they going to do? Break some windows or spray paint something on her house?"

Mariah and Anna squealed, "Oh, that would be terrible."

Cheyenne said, "No, they were talking about putting runny crap in a paper bag, setting it on her porch and then setting it on fire. After they knock, they'd run and hide to wait to see if she would come out and stomp the bag. If she did, instant mess all over her shoes and legs. If not, a terrible stench."

All the girls said, "Ooooh, yuck, that's awful. Do you think they'll really do that?"

They looked at each other and said, "Yes" in unison. Mariah asked, "How can we stop them and how will it be fun?"

Cheyenne moved closer and whispered again, "When do you think they'll try to do it?"

The others answered, "After dark."

Cheyenne spoke into the karaoke mike again, drawing out her words, "Don't do it. You'll be sorry."

Pierre, the little eighteen inch high leprechaun, walked into the room as the girls burst out into squeals and giggles. He drawled in his best Irish brogue, "Aw, me beautiful lassies. I sense nefarious ideas and plans for some poor unfortunate soul. Are ye plotting a Halloween trick?"

The girls all had to tell him hello and accept a hug from him. He had pulled a very wet trick on them when they first met, but with his help they had become very good friends with each other. Now he was the unofficial mascot of their group and loved by all.

Cheyenne filled him in on what she had overheard. Pierre nodded, "Yes, it can be verrry funny. When they stomp on that bag, the look on their faces —"

Cheyenne said, "Pierre, we don't want her to stomp on the bag. Those three goons are always pestering us and bullying all the younger kids. This looks like a perfect time to get even with them. Listen to this..."

She did her impression of a ghost with the mike. Pierre's eyes widened. He grinned at her as he said, "I think it could work. Ye do the voice and I can bewitch a skunk to spray them."

The other girls laughed but Cheyenne said, "I don't think that would be a good idea. What if it's a rabid skunk and it bites them. I was thinking..."

She outlined the plan that had come to her. Everyone clapped at her idea. Alissa said, "If we had some costumes, it would be better. Too bad we couldn't project the sound to different spots around them."

Pierre said, "And why are ye doubting me abilities? I kin do something as simple as that."

Mariah said, "I want to be a body holding my head. I can offer to let them kiss me. Let's see, a wig head would be just right. I could put makeup on it and —"

Anna said, "I want to be..."

The girls decided what they wanted to be and described how they would look. As the looks grew more gruesome and complicated, Mariah asked, "How do we pay for this? Where would we even get it? We only have ten days until Halloween."

Cheyenne said, "How about the thrift store? We can get stuff there for next to nothing. Pierre, could you help us with something that looks like a bony arm and hand? How about a giant spider?"

"Give me a day or two and I may be able to help ye."

Alissa asked, "What if they chicken out and don't try to pull that mean, nasty trick on Mrs. Zavalda?"

Pierre said, "Ye make it a dare. Those laddies could never turn down a dare from a wee lassie. Ye should also mess with their minds over the next few days. Talk about how haunted the house is and how dangerous the old lady be."

Mariah said, "Ughh, I don't want to talk to those creeps."

Pierre said, "Then let them overhear ye."

They planned the rest of their trick on the three buffoons and decided to walk over to Mrs. Zavalda's house the next day to find the best places to pull off their joke. They made plans to go to the thrift store and get the other things they needed the following day.

At school the next day, the girls were around Cheyenne's locker when the three yard apes walked by. They all insulted the boys and went to whispering. As the boys turned the corner to go to their lockers, Anna spoke in a stage whisper, "Did you hear about the extra prize Seth is offering for anyone who goes trick or treating at that spooky old house on Pine Street? That place is so creepy it should be in one of those horror movies. I'm not going."

Mariah answered, "Me either. I'll bet no one is brave enough to go. I've heard someone went years ago and they still haven't found the body."

The girls continued their whispers until the gang of three stepped around the corner. Timmy said, "What are you little ice princesses whispering about? Where did you hear about a special prize for going trick or treating?"

Cheyenne said, "None of your business. You wouldn't go anyway. If an ant squeaked at you over there, you'd most likely pee your pants."

Timmy growled at her and lifted his hand. Cheyenne dropped her books and put her fists up in a boxing stance. The bell rang, giving the boys an excuse to leave. The girls almost giggled out loud as they left.

For the next two days, the words between the teenagers grew more heated and nasty. Cheyenne finally said, "That's it. It's not two blocks now. It's all the way home. Today we get our costumes and tomorrow we'll scout more locations. We'll make sure to take Pierre so he can have some input too."

That afternoon, with many giggles, laughs and dirty looks from clerks, they bought the items they needed to make their costumes. They all told their parents they were making costumes to help some kids with trick or treating. Their parents thought it was a good idea.

Cheyenne carried Pierre as they scouted their locations for the joke the next afternoon. They chose spots well away from street lights with good hiding places. Over the weekend they finished their costumes and put them on. Shrieks of laughter echoed from Cheyenne's bedroom as they displayed their craft and talked on the karaoke mike. Pierre made their voices seem to come from the ceiling and bedroom walls.

At school, they could hardly contain themselves until Halloween. Each day insults and barbs were traded with the buffoons. They also kept building the stories of how awful the house and the old lady were.

On Halloween morning, Cheyenne waited until the three were walking by to say, "Mariah, did I just hear a chicken cluck. No, it's three of them. They'll be too chicken to go to that house. We'll hear all sorts of excuses about their parents needing to keep them in to be safe."

The girls all laughed and the boys glared at them. All through the day when they passed in the hall, the girls laughed at the boys and received a glare in return. When the last bell rang, the girls almost ran home to get ready.

Texts flew between the girls until the time they scheduled to meet. Outside, dark clouds scurried across the sky making the night seem even darker. Most of the younger trick or treaters were already back safely in their homes.

The girls met and headed to their assigned spots. The first one to stop was Anna. She quickly backed into the bushes. Cheyenne asked, "Do you have your walkie talkie?"

"Yes and it's set to channel five. How about the rest of you?"

They all nervously checked and affirmed that their radios were set to five. One fifth grader saw the three girls coming down the street and crossed to the other side, causing the girls to giggle wildly. The fifth grader never took his eyes off of them until he stumbled and turned to run home.

This brought a peal of laughter from the girls. Pierre tried to shush them but that made them laugh even more. The laughter didn't stop until Mariah took her place. Alissa dropped off next and Cheyenne's footsteps slowed as she headed to her spot. The four blocks seemed to take forever to cover.

As she got into position, Anna broadcast, "I see three toads hopping to their doom." Her giggle carried over the air.

Pierre winked out of sight, going back to help her project her voice. After the boys walked by, she used the mike to say, "Don't do it."

Pierre made her voice appear to come from high over their heads. The boys ducked and frantically searched for a source to the voice. Seeing nothing, they milled around trying to make up their mind what to do.

Anna made a clucking sound like a chicken and Pierre projected it to come from across the street. The boys' backs straightened and their shoulders moved back. Timmy said, "I'm going. No little girl is going to say I chickened out."

His slow footsteps betrayed his bravado. The other boys followed behind him.

It took them twenty minutes to cover the four blocks to Mariah. She waited until they passed to say, "You'll be sorry."

Pierre made the voice come out of the ground right behind them. The three jumped and Mariah couldn't stifle the giggle. That ghostly sound made the boys jump and move faster down the street.

They arrived at Alissa's spot a lot quicker. She saw their jaws jutting out in determination to complete their mission. They were fifty steps away from her position in the dark before she said, "Prepare for tribulation."

The three went back to back and desperately searched in vain for the source. Bobby said, "I think I need to get home. I'm sure my Mom needs me to —"

Timmy clucked like a chicken and turned back to his mission. The other two reluctantly shuffled behind him. A noise in the dark made them move together until they could hardly walk. No one cared, they were not losing the touch of familiar.

Cheyenne shivered in the dark night air. Each girl gave an update and they were all looking forward to the rest of the trick. Cheyenne tried to quietly move her feet to get some warmth back in them. At last she heard the boys whispering and stood still.

They stopped not ten feet from her. She couldn't move to complete her part of the trick. All she could do was watch and listen. Timmy stammered, "Bob – Bobby, take – take the sack and – and go set it on the porch."

"Not – not me. Those voices were warning us."

Cheyenne watched as the three clustered together. She hardly dared to breathe. The eerie sound of a fiddle came from the street. The three boys turned away from her. She reached out with the bony hand to grab Timmy's shoulder.

The karaoke mike garbled her voice as she said, "Fresh meat. So long, must have."

As the boys turned toward her voice, she flipped on the flashlight she held in her other hand. Timmy looked from the bony hand and arm sitting on his shoulder to the half rotten corpse of the zombie. A full second went by before he shrieked and sprinted down the street they had just come down.

Bobby and Jerome stood in his way with their mouths open. Bobby held the sack in front of him and Timmy hit him full force like a fullback going through the line. The sack erupted all over the three of them. Bobby and Jerome staggered back as Timmy streaked away.

When Cheyenne took the first step towards them, their feet started to move in a fast dance that took them nowhere. At the second step, they shot off to catch Timmy. The shrieks and wails sounded like a banshee being tortured. The stench wafted down the street with them.

The shrieking sounds stopped two blocks away as the boys needed the air to keep running. As they drew even with Alissa, the headless body holding the wig head in its hands stepped out beside them. Alissa held out the head and mournfully called, "Kiss me. Wait."

The boys sidestepped her and reached deep inside for even more speed. Cheyenne ran up to Alissa a minute or two later. They were both laughing so hard that they could only jog after the runners.

By the time the boys had run another three blocks, Jerome whimpered, "Please – ahh – I've got to stop. I'm dying. I can't get enough breath."

The other two weren't slowing though so Jerome limped along as best he could. Another block and all three slowed, trying to suck precious air into their lungs. Bobby looked up to see the arm still clinging to Timmy.

He started to say something but could only point. Timmy glanced back over his shoulder and as his eyes bugged out, he started picking up speed again. The other two slowed until Mariah flashed out into the street beside them.

She yelled, "Catch them, my lovelies."

With a flip of her wrist, she threw a giant spider at the two. It hit in the middle of Jerome's back and clung there. Mariah flipped her wrist again and another spider hit Bobby. Even with their renewed shrieks, both boys soon caught Timmy.

The only sounds heard on the street were the slaps of feet dashing away from the latest threat and the moans as the boys tried to keep from collapsing. The gasps for breath could be heard a block away when they came to Anna.

She waited until they passed then jumped out in her ghost costume. In her right hand, she had a short stick with a long string attached. At the end of the string hung a large fake bat. Anna whirled the bat over her head and ran close to the boys.

The bat fluttered like a live thing and Anna shouted, "Playmates. Grab them."

The boys gave a short shriek and tried to run but they were moving as fast as they could. Anna kept up with them for half a block and kept the bat whirring just over their heads. None of the boys looked behind, they just tried to move a little faster.

Anna held her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Finally, she couldn't keep running and watched the three ne'er-do-wells reach Timmy's house. They hit the door so hard it splintered the door jamb. Anna could hear the screaming and yelling of adults. She thought she heard something about stench, but her laughter kept her from hearing it all.

Anna staggered to the side of the road holding her sides. Her friends ran up and joined her. Soon all five of them were on the ground laughing and holding their sides. A few minutes later when they were sore from laughing so hard, Cheyenne gasped, "Pierre, did you get that on the video?"

"I did, me dear, but I'm afraid it might be a little shaky. Never in all me born days have I seen or heard anything as funny. I could barely move from me laughter."

The five stood and looked at each other. The giggles started again, but they managed to start walking towards Mariah's house. As they came to the deepest darkness on the street, a ghostly voice came from behind them, "Thaaannnnk yoooou."

Five heads whipped around to see who was there. An empty street greeted them. A loud, shrill scream tore from five throats as four sets of feet scrambled for safety. Pierre jumped at Cheyenne's back and clung to her for dear life. He kept yelling, "Faster, faster they're right behind us."

None of them looked back to see the old lady on the bicycle silently cackling until the tears streamed down her face. In her hand was one of the karaoke mikes.

*****

If you enjoyed this story you might like to read more of Terry's writing. Such as...

Wanted

by Terry Compton

Josh Gunn detests space pirates. When he and his android partner, Cherry Kang, tangle with a bad one, they crash their shot-up spaceship in unfamiliar territory. Struggling to survive, they find a crazy alien who talks to an invisible partner, giant energy eating snakes and a new enemy. This enemy threatens to destroy a planet along with millions of people. Now Josh and Cherry are hunting them.

*****

**Terry Compton has raced stock cars,** rode horses across the Scapegoat Wilderness, fished and hunted most of his adult life while trying to pay for these hobbies by working at several different jobs. He is an Air Force veteran and served in the Air National Guard for several years. Currently, he is the owner, chief welder and installer for an ornamental iron business. Terry has made several award winning metal creations and is now turning this creativity to writing.

Terry loves to read. Some of his favorite authors are Clive Cussler, Robert Ludlum, Tom Clancy, Andre Norton, Poul Anderson, Robert Heinlein, Louie L'Amour, Zane Grey and Anne McCaffery. Newly found 'indie' authors with e-books he enjoys are Lindsay Buroker, Joseph Lallo, M. R. Mathias, Brian Rathbone, L. J. Sellers, Dana Stabenow and Luke Sky Wachter to name just a few.

Terry currently lives in Montana with his wife and a dog who thinks she is a short furry people.

**Website:** <http://terrysbooks.com/>

#  Malediction

By Roger Lawrence

The man patiently hacked the ancient rock with a sliver of granite now worn to a fraction of its original size. There was no hurry for he had nothing else to do.

Surrounding him the sooty cave walls barely reflected the feeble light of a winter's dawn but each grimy face bore evidence of many other such engravings. At first he'd marked off individual days which soon became clusters of six scratches covered by a diagonal slant. Later still the weeks became months. Eventually they had filled one entire wall to become years. Now, so many lifetimes later even the decades jostled for dominance on the largest wall next to the last containing centuries. There were fewer of these, just nine.

On this day his hands worked with new purpose. After many weeks of counting and recounting, dragging armfuls of wet reeds to clear away the soot from his dank home, the slow countdown was finally nearing its end. With a low groan he turned to regard his labours. Every faceted wall reeked of wet soot, but beneath that smeared filth all three hundred and sixty four thousand nine hundred and ninety nine marks lay. It was for this year he'd waited so long, for in exactly one more day this torture would end.

After all this time the prospect of even one more day seemed an eternity and the man stood with nervous energy. Outside was temporary relief from his boredom and stifled excitement. Once wild animals had lived out there, but they'd never presented any threat to him. The wolves had always avoided him even in the deepest winters when hunger drove them to attack any breathing creature. Even the wild boar, long gone from this land like the wolves, had been willing to attack anything, except him. Above in the sky all birds steered a wide course around his cave, as if their lives depended upon it. Perhaps it was his smell, or more likely the lack thereof. The man had never killed anything. Not the wolves, nor the wild boar, for in all that time he'd never experienced hunger or thirst; just loneliness and regret. The animal pelt he wore about his waist was the result of a lightning struck cow many centuries before. For some reason instead of rotting, his eternal body had endowed it with the same curse of life surrounding itself.

In the early days he'd sometimes wondered why the beasts avoided his cave, and him on his rare emergence; finally tempting them, shouting, hurling rocks at the prowling packs praying, ordering and finally begging them to kill him. It had not worked. In desperation he'd resorted to other methods of ending his torture. Plunging from a nearby cliff face and smashing against numerous jagged rocks on the way down had achieved nothing save brief pain. Even toppling a giant boulder in order to trap his body beneath a nearby river yielded the same result - nothing but sheer boredom. Upon discovering an old deer antler many years before, days scraping it against a rock had finally honed the tip to razor sharpness and with fearful trepidation he'd driven it into his throat, his heart, again and again. But inevitably every attempt to end his miserable existence met with the same result.

That was many centuries ago and now he simply waited. As the years progressed the arrival of human beings bothered him little and what passed for their language interested him not at all for it consisted of little but guttural grunting as if of feeble minds, but apparently possessed enough animal instinct to avoid him. Much later, he'd long given up counting the time with the exception of his daily mark, others had come, foreign soldiers and not as he dimly remembered from dimly remembered movies, resplendent in engraved armour and bright dashing helmets but barely more protected than the savages they'd come to overthrow. Yet others came and went as civilisations gradually formed. First dirty hamlets, then larger villages and finally small towns, yet as always all left him well alone, and as he well remembered, this was why he'd chosen this particular place to build a house – simply to be away from other humans.

At the early part of his incarceration in a world to which he no longer belonged he'd immediately recognised his location. The three large hills surrounding his plot were the same now as then. In the distance the first, steep and rising almost two thousand feet, while to its left another sprawling and jagged, while the third a long series of deep gorges lead down to a peaceful valley two miles north of his property.

Many more years passed and had he not carefully kept pace with the time the surrounding area would have remained relatively unchanged. He knew of wars, saw their sign as the centuries progressed; even witnessed the occasional dogfight as World War Two consumed the country. Even now the sight of civilian airliners crossing far overhead offered him little reprieve from the tedium except in reinforcing his knowledge that this time was finally coming to an end.

A long time ago he'd finally broken his moratorium on interaction and wandered down into the new town, expecting some kind of reaction to his wild unkempt appearance, even hoping to be arrested, praying for incarceration because that at least would afford him some interaction with human beings. But it was not to be for as soon as he crossed the invisible boundary between wilderness and civilisation a blazing wind only he could see and feel beat him back. Flames from an equally invisible furnace burnt his skin that for so many centuries had been impervious to such harm. In frustration he returned to his cave, a place even the occasional wanderer of the hills failed to notice despite his furious shouting for attention.

In the distance the burgeoning town he'd fled almost one thousand years before was now at the point where his single opportunity to rid himself of this awful curse was due.

The reason this day was so special was because this was the day that man – it was almost amusing how he'd come to call him by that name – would lay the first brick of a new home. In twenty four hours or so the house from whence this awful curse originated would begin construction. And it was this first brick which could not be laid. There was no way of avoiding the awful curse but so many nights, so many centuries alone had afforded him an idea. For many years he'd considered it the possible advantages and equal number of pitfalls until the decision was finally made. If the curse could not be avoided, then perhaps it could be bypassed. Possibly nonsense he knew but a million thoughts and ideas had preceded this decision, so if he was not to live without living for the rest of eternity there was only one thing to do.

The man in question was himself, and if his idea was to work then he would have to kill him. That was impossible at present for the man had to be here at the right place and the right time. To kill the other incarnation of himself at the exact moment before committing the truly stupid mistake was the only way of finding peace.

Back in the cave after a day of fruitless wandering he finally sank down, refusing to look at the vague sight of scaffolding in the light of the sinking sun as he remembered that night almost a thousand years ago but as clear as if it had been yesterday.

'Hey look at this.' The lilting tones of Jennifer. How he remembered that voice, a precious memory kept for only the most depressing of times. 'You're not really going to build your house here?' They'd met just over a year before that fateful night. A pretty, caring woman with a warm heart and delicious sense of humour with whom he'd become quite smitten despite the strange manner which at first he'd found irritating but later amusing; a superstitious bent inherited from her mother.

He recalled laughing, long accustomed to her odd behaviour where ghosts and spirits were concerned.

'Yes, of course. This is my land. I spent five years saving for it and I'm not letting some old mumbo jumbo stop me.'

The marks she'd found on a moss covered rock: a daisy wheel with the interior divided into petal-like segments within the arcs of other circles, had seemed nothing more than primitive markings, old and forgotten, and with youthful zeal ignored them as he swept his arms wide to show her how everything would be: his kitchen and after a long battle with the local council the cavernous living room all enclosed by nearly thirty feet of glass offering him a vista like no one else for miles.

'You know what this means?' He had no idea what it meant and furthermore cared little. This was his land. He'd worked one hundred hours per week to earn enough money to buy it and nothing was going to stop him building his house here. 'It means stay away because this is witch ground.'

He'd dismissed her superstitions with a snort and continued to show her the plans for his house, barely noticing that she'd moved away and now stared beseechingly at him.

'You can't build a house here,' she said finally with a voice he'd heard before and always ignored. 'I know how much you've worked but you have to build it somewhere else.' He barely remembered his response, but it must have been sufficiently rude for her to leave, a departure he barely noticed. How many times had he lain awake during his thousand year exile wishing he'd listened to her?

Innumerable hours later he prepared to go, the words of the witch ringing in his ears. For all these years he'd waited for just this moment. Was it possible he wondered, looking about his cave for hopefully the final time, to feel excitement for the end of one's own life. For that was what it was. He knew the curse would not allow him to stop his other, foolish self from carelessly hacking out the witches stone, and it was not for that which he waited, for to undo what had already happened was not possible. But all those years had offered him an alternative solution and one which he now intended to pursue come what may.

He was going to kill the other version of himself before he could destroy that blasted stone. It would mean his own death but also the end of this torture. He considered this with no joy and indeed great sympathy for his earlier unsuspecting self, but also knew that same person would never back down, could not retreat from his dream, which was why it had to be prevented before blossoming into that final stupid act.

As he arrived at the location his yet un-built house in the real world of which he felt no part, he was relieved that the invisible force field separating him from the rest of humanity did not appear, did not prevent him from approaching. The happiness he felt was overshadowed by sadness that his plan, his only plan might work. It was as if the other version of himself had slipped back and become someone else entirely and although he desperately wanted to succeed, the distant memory of Jennifer's voice intruded upon the act he'd contemplated these long years. From nowhere save perhaps the tiny spark of humanity still residing within him a wave of horror at what he was about to commit caused him to stagger. Could he really do it to the other version of himself, a brash and sometimes arrogant, but not uncaring man. Could he really kill anyone, regardless of his identity? The fight within him was a physical pain. For long moments he struggled with it, telling himself that it was the only way whilst warding off the accusations of his sickening selfishness.

'Kill him,' he said aloud, his words harsh and vindictive. 'Kill him and be done with it.

Indeed he climbed to his feet, his mission clear once more, but before taking one more step finally realised that all those years, almost a thousand long lonely years were a punishment not for what he'd done, but for what he was actively considering. He fell back down, tears running freely as he knew the deed was beyond him.

Strangely the recognition that he was incapable of such a monstrous act pleased him. How much succour it would provide during the next one thousand years was a mystery but finally, all those years of hate were leaving him. Again he stood, determined at least to see himself do the stupid thing before the first version of himself became one with him, and at least another person need not die. This illogical thought followed him as he finally grew closer.

The open glade appeared slowly as he carefully skirted the trees. At any moment he expected to feel the violent roar, expelling him from this place and destroying his one chance of salvation. Yet it did not come, almost as if he was supposed to do this. Yes, keep telling yourself that, he grinned mirthlessly amid the soft caress of the grass about his feet. It was as he entered the small treeless area previously destined to be his home so long ago, and ironically, today, that all sound departed. Not the soft swishing of reeds, nor the gentle hum of wind or even the distant chatter of owls. As if all air had been sucked out of the glade he stood in a void, the thundering of his heart the loudest thing in the world.

'You came, then?'

The words hit him as a thunderbolt, throwing him to the ground, writhing in fear at the deep accusation. And yet seconds later he realised, the words had not come from the harridan awakened by his arrogant destruction of the stone but by someone else.

'Jennifer?' With terror he waited for the thunderbolt of pain at his ejection from the only place he'd ever found happiness. For long seconds he cringed, readying himself for death and at the same time partially relieved that it would finally be over. Yet nothing more happened and eventually he plucked the courage to look around and there she was; and just as important not a day older than the last time.

With her face returned a flood of feelings. Until that very moment something he'd not realised, or perhaps kept hidden from himself was his absolute and complete adoration for her. She had not been just a girlfriend from his idle fantasies but the very centre of his life. Emotions of an intensity he'd not realised flooded from her dark, soulful eyes. A smile for him alone and one he remembered with yearning. But something was wrong.

For a moment he could not see what it was, even though the scene was exactly the same as it had been before, a thousand years had passed and yet nothing had changed. Finally it dawned upon him. Her clothing: it was exactly the same as she'd worn on that night as he'd kicked that stone slab with the strange symbols.

Her eyes filled his vision, those large black orbs staring sadly, yet the smile was bright and glorious as it had always been. How could he have forgotten that face?

'You don't remember, do you?' Her voice, a soft stirring of wind.

He continued to gaze at her, his plans of the previous instant forgotten as he basked in her presence.

'I'm the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. Do you know what that means?' He did not and surely now was not the time for such mundane questions.

'I suppose it means you get a lot of birthday presents.' Her smile slipped but only a fraction.

'It means more than that.' She chided him gently and he knew that whatever she said or did could never upset him again. How had he spent all these years without thinking of...?

'It means that I inherited certain gifts. Some of which I could do without, and other which make life worth living. One of the worst gifts,' she continued over his imminent outburst, 'is the power of second sight. You are waiting for yourself, aren't you?' Those large black orbs stared yet the smile was bright and glorious as it had always been. His gasp of surprise was unintentional and loud. 'You are waiting for yourself so that you can stop him from desecrating the rock, or even perhaps kill him.' Her voice had not changed. No accusations, no rage, or even joy at being correct.

'I was,' he said softly, looking into her deep eyes, 'but I changed my mind. He, or rather the other me doesn't deserve it. At least this way he will disappear and become me once more. There is no reason for both of us to regret my actions in that world of nothingness.' He looked up, expecting a smile at his misery, preparing himself to be furious and swear whilst waiting for the other foolish version of himself to come. 'If one of us has to die then let it be me because I was the cause of it all. Let his life become part of mine. Let all this end.'

For a moment she said nothing. Her beautiful brown eyes filled with tears. The sight of a single drop running down her milky cheeks halted his movement and anger as instant remorse wrenched his heart. But he couldn't. He simply could not wait another day for... but no further words or thoughts were needed for he remembered everything.

'But it has already ended. Don't you see?' The harridan springing from the rock had not been old; no fire had sprung from her eyes, nor bile filth from her mouth. There had been no harridan at all; only Jennifer. Her pleas had come to naught in his youthful arrogance and her tearful begging meant nothing to him. How cruel he'd been. With a sob he fell to his knees, beating first his fists then head on the ground.

'I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'll go back, I'll go back for a million years. Just don't cry. I love you and always will.' His last sight as the small clearing, the hated stone and his tears were all consumed by the vacuum of displaced air was her face. For just this moment it was all worth it. For just that one smile he was happy to rot in that cave for all eternity.

The very moment the thoughts hit his mind something happened. Nothing so dramatic as a rush of wind or the howl of furious demons but simply, peace. And there, kneeling down to him, her face radiant and smiling was Jennifer.

'Oh, darling. I was so worried we would have to go through it all over again. Do you know how many times we've done this before? Five,' she stated with an impish smile. 'It's taken five times for you to understand. Every single time we did this you ignored me and killed the young man you were, only to be sent back to that awful nothingness and leaving me in a void. Every time I'm born I don't know you, but then we meet, and you do the same thing. Every time I try to tell you but you never listen. Then I spend the rest of my life waiting to die. And then I'm born again and wait for you again. I've waited so long for you to remember that you're human, I was beginning to think it would never happen.

His mind whirled. What was she saying? Had he done it, and this was the prelude to him being sent back yet again? As he thought vague snatches of other memories returned. A never ending wait in, not a cave but a mud hut, another in a dark deep forest and every time waiting – just waiting.

'Yes my darling. Now we can rejoin the real world and this never ending story is behind us. I've found a flat, right in the middle of London. No trees, no rocks and no curses. Finally we can be together forever.'

As if in agreement night was gone, the sun shone from behind the clouds, the wind dropped and for the first time he felt the warmth of its golden orb on his face. Taking her hand and sobbing in joy he led her away, to life.

*****

If you enjoyed this story you might like to read more of Roger's writing. Such as...

A Little Twist

by Roger Lawrence

A selection of short stories with a twist in the tail

*****

**I've yet to decide which is my favourite genre,** so I've written in quite a few. From three comedy SF novels of three teenage heroes saving the galaxy from murdering mutants, to an occasionally humorous series about three cantankerous old gits who do the opposite, albeit accidentally. My second horror novel in a series of three has just hit the shelves and my first suspense mystery with a little horror thrown in will be ready soon. I also have a collection of short stories with a strange twist at the end.

The second Old Geezers installment is under furious editing and I've just begun the third monster installment. I wish there were twenty five hours in the day so I could do more.

#  Beldren

By Joleene Naylor

Matthias stood before the three men, his back to the tavern's fireplace. "I am tired of living as a vagabond with no discernable prospects, as are you, my friends. With no land, no home, no farm. On my journey I saw things you will not believe, things which would remedy our plight. Gold, lace, and riches beyond our dreams! It is time to take what we are owed." His German accent lent a learned quality to his words, but Beldren shook his head.

"What good would come from such an action? What will you do with the goods you steal?" He looked to the others, Duncan and Patrick. "What say you?"

"They could be taken to the frontier," Duncan replied slowly.

"Or kept for ourselves," Patrick suggested.

"What would the frontiersman give us for them? What use have they for fine things? What use have we?" Beldren made an irritated noise. "The promises of such a life were lies."

"They are only lies if one waits for good fortune to be handed out," Matthias insisted. "Those who came before us-"

"Those who came before us were given the things they were promised. Land, money. When my servitude expired I was given ten bushels of corn, a set of clothes, and a musket. I was wished good luck, and told to settle 'away'. The land owners are unwilling to part with a parcel of their domain, and they desire the competition we might create even less."

"Yes, yes," Matthias said impatiently. "This is why Bacon led his rebellion, and it illustrates the need for us to take with our own hands those things which should have been bestowed upon us. I tell you, I have found a way; a mansion, packed full of wonders such as you have never beheld."

"You might be surprised what I have seen," Beldren muttered.

Duncan smiled. "Or what you wish us to believe you have seen. You are our imitation lord, giving one pretense to believe that you come from good stock but never proving the truth of such assumptions. You are as common as we, and it is this commonality that makes us brothers."

Patrick nodded enthusiastically. "As brothers we should put such matters to a vote. I want to hear more of this 'mansion of wonders'."

Duncan nodded his agreement, and Matthias visibly puffed up. "The mansion is of brick, with wide windows – glass imported from England. Inside, the gilt gleams from mirrors, and silk hangs on the walls. Of the family there are no men folk, only three women."

Beldren choked mid drink. "Three women? Now I know you are daft. There is no such place in all of Virginia! How could three women survive on their own? How could they cross the ocean unaccompanied?"

"I did not say they were alone," Matthias replied testily. "They hold Negro slaves and three white indentured, but I feel they would be no threat to us. They have a haunted look in their eyes and wounds. No slave will protect a master who treats them poorly."

Duncan rubbed his chin. "The indentured might, with the hope that they will collect the promised corn and clothes at the end of their contract."

"Aye." Patrick poured himself another cup of cider and offered the pitcher to Beldren. "If they stand idly by and allow us to take all that their masters have, then it will leave them with nothing."

"They will have nothing when their contract is done," Beldren replied. "Still, I agree. The plan is folly."

Matthias paced before the fireplace, his brows knit in aggravation. "It took two weeks for me to discover that the stories were true, to find the mistresses and their mansion, to learn the lay of the land and the arrangement of their estate, and now you say it is folly?"

"I said it was folly before you left to scout out the truth," Beldren replied. "If such a household existed, ripe for the picking, do you not think it would have already been plucked?"

"It is there," Duncan argued. "Matthias saw it, unless you cast doubt on his veracity?"

"I cast doubt on his sobriety." Beldren snickered, then grew serious. "No doubt the situation appeared as Matthias has described, but truth and perception are not always the same. There are men a'plenty there. Though not immediately discernable to the eye, mark my words they exist. Perhaps out on a hunting excursion, or managing the slaves in the field, or assisting a neighbor, or participating in any number of reasonable occupations. If we attempt this, we will arrive only to be killed."

"We will not be killed. I swear on my life, and the life of my children and their children that no men make up the principle household. Three women only. We will meet with no resistance."

Patrick cocked an eyebrow. "You have no children."

"My future children then."

Beldren shook his head. "Once we are killed, you will have no future children."

"Have faith in me," Matthias insisted. "I have planned our adventure to the letter."

Beldren muttered and downed the last of his cider. _I hope you've planned our funerals._

***

Reconnaissance had taken Matthias two weeks, but the journey took only two days on foot. "They have horses," he promised again and again. It was one more thing they could steal. One more thing they were owed.

By midafternoon on the second day, the property came into view. The brick house stood two storied with the promised glass windows. Around it stretched huts and buildings of varying sizes, barns, slave quarters, a building to house the indentured, and all the implements needed for tobacco farming and drying. Dark skinned slaves were hard at work. Beldren noted their thick corded muscles and imagined the damage they could do.

_Will do_ , he corrected. This was one venture he doubted he could talk his way out of.

Their plan involved cover of darkness, so Matthias led them down into a ravine. A creek snaked through the bottom, lined in pebbles, and tree roots hung down the dirt walls like vines. They shared a late lunch of dry bread. Matthias and Duncan dreamed of the delicious foods they would eat once they had taken all from the sisters – as Duncan had so termed them. Beldren looked to Patrick for sense, but it was useless. He laughed along with the pair and, though his dreams seemed more jest than real, his eyes glowed with the same hope.

Beldren turned to his musket. He cleaned the firearm and let his mind wander to days before gunpowder and the frontier. London had been crowded and noisy, thick with the smell of man and beast, and then with death. Seven months after his father died in the Great Plague, his mother was taken in the Great Fire. After that he'd bounced back and forth between relatives and those willing to take him in exchange for work. It was only luck that landed him at his Uncle Sweeney's door. The lessons had been hard, but with the aid of the hornbook and his uncle's switch he'd settled down and learned to read and write. Math followed, and then etiquette. Soon he was ready to take on the world.

Or to pretend he could.

That was something else his uncle had taught him. Together they'd carried off some sizeable swindles – from pretending to be royal blood to impersonating a doctor and his assistant. That was why Beldren had needed to be educated; how else could Sweeney pass him off as a child of breeding? The best swindles were aimed at widow women with money, and thanks to the ravages of the plague there were many to be had. Beldren's eighteenth summer had been spent at the country estate of just such a noble lady. That was when he'd met _her._

The memory of summersweet tickled his nose, and he pushed the thoughts away. Better to rest and prepare than to idly live in fancies of the past.

No matter how sweet they were.

The sun dipped. The sky above glowed first red and orange, then pale purple that faded to deep navy blue. Matthias checked his pocket watch and announced that it was after nine. "Most god fearing widow women should be tucked in by such a time."

They climbed out of the ravine and squinted towards the house. Light glowed in the windows and dark shadows moved about the property like wraiths: slaves who were not yet bedded down.

"God fearing women tucked into bed," Duncan commented wryly.

"Their servants are finishing up the day," Matthias assured them. "Come, under cover of night we can draw closer."

"Close enough that they can crack our heads like walnuts?" Beldren muttered.

The long grass whispered as they moved closer to the mansion and the village of outbuildings. Matthias motioned them to a stop and they ducked down into the vegetation, like quail hiding from a hunter.

Beldren counted his heartbeats and fingered his musket. The sounds of the slaves died out as they retired for the night. Cicadas chirped and somewhere an owl hooted.

Matthias poked his head up, frowned and dropped back down. "The slaves have gone to bed, but the lamps remain lit in the house."

Beldren shifted and scratched his ankle. Invisible bugs bit through his clothes, and a rock dug into his backside. He could feel the dew settling on his shoulders and legs. At this rate they'd be soaked.

It felt an eternity before Duncan peered over the grass to mutter, "They are still awake."

Patrick flopped back and yawned. "Perhaps we should do as they refuse to and catch at least a moment's nap before our attack?"

"You napped all afternoon," Matthias replied. He rose to a crouch and squinted towards the house. "Mayhap they do not wake, but sleep fully illuminated?"

"Who would do such a thing?" Beldren asked incredulously. "To waste candles?"

"Waste is something the rich excel at," Patrick commented. "Why wouldn't they sleep with light? Three women with no man? Surely they would be fearful and frightened. Why not chase back the shadows? They have slaves to make their candles and tend to the flames."

"They have slaves to defend them," Beldren pointed out. "This is an ill omen."

"Ill? Because they light candles?" Duncan laughed. "You are like an old crone with your superstitions. Let us move closer and see if they have not retired for the evening."

The murmur of agreement rolled through them, like the wind in the grass, and it was only Beldren who dissented. Something unsettling blew on the breeze and the closer they drew, the more unnerving it became.

They reached the outer structures. The warm dry smell of tobacco tickled Beldren's nose. The familiarity did not quiet his fears. By the time they stood in the shadow of the house, the hair stood straight on the back of his neck.

Matthias pulled himself up and slithered inside a window. He straightened and tiptoed to the doorway, then returned and motioned the others inside. Duncan and Patrick followed quickly. Beldren hesitated. Black dread settled like lead in his stomach, though he could not pinpoint the source of his discomfort. As Matthias said, the slaves were gone to bed, and no doubt so had the women. The gold was ripe for the taking.

He made the sign of the cross then pulled himself into the window. The fear shifted to the back of his mind, and his uncle's training took over. Instinctively he added up the worth of the room's contents. Richly patterned rugs looked Turkish in origin, and the furnishings were upholstered in silk. White washed walls hung with gilt framed paintings. The subjects were beautiful women in dress that covered two hundred years of fashion. Carved furniture and a bird cage inset with jewels glinted in the light from two heavy gold candelabras. His eyes went wide as he mentally adjusted the total worth for colonial prices. When Matthias had called the sisters rich, he'd had no idea.

"Pssst. Beldren."

His head snapped up to see the others pressed close to the doorway. Matthias motioned him to join them. With a nod he hurried to obey.

The next room was as stuffed with money as the first, and just as empty of life. The third room, furnished as a dining room, sported a wall of landscape paintings and a crystal chandelier. Beldren hadn't seen wealth like this since... _since her._

A soft sound came from the doorway and they turned back to find a woman. Her long red hair was gathered around her head in a nest of curls. A peach gown fell around her feet. The bodice, long and tight, left a bubble of cleavage to peek over the top. Jewels sparkled at her throat and on her fingers, but paled in comparison to her shining eyes and the beauty of her face; the curve of her nose, the shape of her lips, the fringe of her eyelashes.

Beldren's breath stuck in his throat and the woman smiled. Tight demure lips spread slowly to reveal pearly white teeth and sharp incisors, like those of a great cat.

"Who are you that would come uninvited into our den?" she asked, her voice like music.

Two women seemed to materialize behind her, a brunette in a purple gown and a blonde wearing pale blue. They surveyed their guests and the blonde said sourly, "Their names do not matter, only their deaths."

At her words the spell was broken. Matthias drew his musket and Duncan and Patrick fell back. Beldren's mind, already in a frame of thought he had forgotten about, clicked quickly, and his mouth was moving before he was aware of the words.

"We beg pardon of you, dear madams. We are travelers who have run afoul of robbers on the road. In need of shelter we saw your lights, but when no answer came to our knock we let ourselves in, fearing that the ruffians had visited your plantation before they made such work of us."

He gave them a sweeping bow. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Beldren and these are my companions, such as they are. May I inquire to your own wellbeing? The unmolested state of your decor leads me to believe the rogues have not visited you in the night, but one must never make assumptions, especially when beautiful ladies are concerned."

The red head giggled and blushed. "Mark how he talks, sisters! A gentleman in this accursed wilderness."

The blonde marched towards him, her forehead wrinkled with disapproval. "No gentleman is this, but a rogue himself. Lower your weapon, fool, it will serve you no good within these walls." She motioned to Matthias, then turned dark eyes on Beldren. "I can see your thoughts, knave, and know your plan. You thought to catch us unaware and so take that which we have amassed. For your efforts you will gain only oblivion. Thomasin, Mabel. Call the slaves and have these rogues taken to the pantry."

The brunette hurried away, but the redhead hesitated. "Must we? Can't we keep them as pets?"

"Go Mabel!"

The redhead scampered off and the blonde turned back with a snarl. She lunged at Matthias. Duncan and Patrick scattered and Beldren fell back against the wall. "Please, fair lady, I assure you that-"

The gun went off with a roar. Beldren covered his ears and looked through the smoke to see the blonde tackle Matthias to the floor. Blood darkened a patch on the back of her gown, but the injury didn't slow her down. She snapped in his face, revealing the same cat-like teeth as her sister. Without thought, Beldren grabbed her shoulders and tried to wrench her away. She snarled, and batted him away with enough force to send him flying into the wall. His head bounced on the window ledge and the world disappeared in black.

***

Beldren was first aware of the pounding in his head, as if someone smashed a hammer to his skull in time to his heartbeat. He blinked swollen eyes against the darkness. His vision adjusted and he found himself looking at planks; some kind of wooden building with a dirt floor and scattered hay. Slats of late sunlight splayed across one corner. From their color he could tell the sun would soon be gone. Had he slept all night and the next day?

With the question came self-awareness. He wasn't horizontal as a sleeping man should be, rather vertical. Small agonies began to filter through the pain of his head. His shoulders. His arms. His legs. His wrists. His neck. He fought them and forced his mind to concentrate. His wrists were shackled above him, and he hung from heavy chains suspended from the ceiling so that the bottoms of his feet just rested on the floor. His shirt, coat, and vest had been removed, and the stain of dark rivulets ran down his naked chest, though he couldn't see the wound.

Memories slammed into him, and each made his heart race. Fear rose like bile and he choked back a scream. The sisters. Was it them or their slaves who'd stripped him and hung him in a shed? Where were his friends?

A low moan seemed an answer, and he squinted through the semi-gloom to see Patrick and Duncan. Both hung as he did. Duncan looked all right, but the side of Patrick's face was a swollen mass of dark incisions. Beldren turned to his left to see Matthias. He hung in his chains, his legs bent and his feet limp. A gaping wound in his belly looked like a bullet, and Beldren turned away quickly.

"Are-are you alive?" His voice sounded weak and dry to his own ears.

Duncan coughed and Patrick moaned again. Matthias stayed conspicuously silent.

Deathly silent.

"How did we get to be here?" Beldren asked.

"Those women..." Duncan wheezed. "Are not women at all, but demons from hell. They... _wheeze_...shot Matthias with your musket. The blood seemed to drive them wild and they set upon him, claws and fangs... _wheeze_...like banshees. When his screams strangled off one of them ate on Patrick." The chain rattled as if he was motioning to his brother. "One of them took me, and another you. She ripped into your throat like a wolf with prey. I tried to fight, but the demon was too strong. Not human... _wheeze_...not human."

He continued to mutter and Beldren turned his foggy mind to escape. His legs were unbound. Perhaps when someone came to check on them he could lash out and knock them down and then...No. Perhaps he could kick them into Duncan and Patrick. They could wrap their legs around the captor, holding him in place, and he could get the keys to the cuffs...assuming there were keys, and assuming that he had them and assuming they could then magic them up into the air and unlock the cuffs...

The plan made his head ache. He tried to recall the layout of the buildings; tried to picture Matthias' inked map. There were several sheds they might be inside of, and an untold number of slaves likely to be beyond the plank walls. Even if he could get the cuffs off of his wrists, could he fight them in his current state? It was futile. Everything was futile.

Duncan's rambles died down. Patrick mumbled something sloppy and wet that Beldren couldn't understand. The sunlight faded and disappeared. Beldren took turns lifting one foot then the other in an effort to ease his aching legs. Eventually a door scraped open behind him. No footsteps followed, only the sound of his heart and his companions ragged breathing. He tried to twist around, but his restraints prevented him from turning far enough.

A woman suddenly stepped in front of him. Moonlight slanted through gaps in the walls. It traced lines over her marble face and touched highlights on her hair and dress. He flinched back as he recognized the blonde sister from the previous night. She flicked a cold stare over him, then moved to Matthias. She prodded him with a long nailed finger, and he swung on his chains.

With a grunt of displeasure she abandoned him and moved to Duncan. He cried out in Gaelic as she leaned close and inhaled. With indifference she turned away and stopped before Patrick. He whimpered and mumbled; words made incoherent by his slit, bleeding mouth. She smiled at the efforts, or maybe at his scent, and caught his chin in her hand. He struggled, but she tightened her hold and leaned close, as though to kiss him. At the last moments her lips pulled away from her long shining fangs. With a snarl she sunk them into his face, just below his mangled bottom lip.

Patrick's screams filled the barn, and Beldren looked away. He could see her in his mind; the dark silhouettes merged into an unnatural shape, half pulling and struggling and the other feasting. Duncan had been right. She was a demon.

As though she sensed the thought, her head suddenly snapped up from her prey. Her face was in shadow, but Beldren could feel the cold, penetrating gaze. His heart hammered as he imagined her coming to him next, ripping through his face and-

A musical voice sounded from outside. "Ismene! Where are you?"

The blonde held the warning look for a moment more, then stepped back and wiped her face. "I'm here."

The footsteps were light, and their owner gave a tiny cry as she skidded to a stop. "Oh Ismene! You've eaten without us!"

It was the red haired sister from the night before.

"Take your fill," Ismene said brusquely. "But do not free them, no matter what pretty lies they give. The same goes for you, Thomasin."

The brunette was suddenly visible. She tossed her head and asked disdainfully, "Why would I?"

"I wonder." Ismene started for the door, then called back, "The one on the end is dead. I'll send a slave to take him down."

Thomasin gave another disdainful sniff and moved to the sobbing Patrick. "Do be a man and cease your blubbering. It is most unbecoming."

"Leave him be, demon!" Duncan screamed.

Beldren didn't watch what happened next because Mabel was suddenly in front of him. In the dim light he could see her bat her eyes. "Good evening, sir."

A pause followed and he realized she was waiting for a reply. His mind raced to overcome the terror coursing through him, to force his ears to ignore the slurping sounds coming from Duncan. He tried to find shreds of his uncle's lessons – the secret to pretense was to picture the lie until it was as real for you as for those you wished to believe it. The lie was calm, and the pretense was nearly impossible.

Though he tried, his voice shook when he replied, "And to you, mistress."

She frowned. "You sound rough, sir. Perhaps you are thirsty?" She called to the slaves and soon Beldren heard the heavy step of someone at the door behind him. "Bring water for the humans."

The footsteps left and she wiped a stray hair from her face. "I must apologize for your ill treatment. The slaves fear to venture into the larder - even to care for the provender - for fear that they will be next in the chains. You see, they are used when there is no other."

Her words twisted a sick pit in his stomach. Provender. They were food – food for the demon sisters. How long would they last before they were completely devoured? Would they be eaten a limb at a time, or would it be all at once? Even now was Duncan being finished off while he fought to hold a straight face?

Mabel seemed to be waiting for a response, so Beldren forced out, "Quite understandable."

"Yes, I suppose it is, though it seems rather weak of them. Surely they must know their only purpose is to serve those of us who are of higher privilege? I speak not of the color of their skin, mind, but of their mortality. Light or dark you are all the same to us and should be practical enough to accept your fate. I am much relieved to see that you have come to such easy terms with it. I can only think that you alone have figured out the truth of this situation."

Patrick's sobbing grew to a higher pitch and he called for his brother. Duncan didn't answer, though Thomasin stepped away from him, wiping her face with a handkerchief. "I've finished."

"Yes, I can see." Mabel nodded to her. "I will join you at the house shortly."

As Thomasin disappeared, a small flame of hope blossomed in Beldren's chest. Perhaps he could convince Mabel to free him. Though she was insane, she seemed reasonable. He opened his mouth to begin when she cut him short.

"The time for pleasantries has come to an end, sir. I must take my meal and then my leave." She stepped closer and inhaled deeply. She opened her mouth, as if to speak, but instead she bit into his shoulder. He cried out in surprise, and she laid her finger to his lips.

"A gentleman does not cry out," she murmured, her lips moist with his blood. "Hush now."

She bit again and he held back the cry. The pain faded, leaving a black vacuum where nothing existed, not even the pounding in his head. And then it was over and she stood back, wiping her lips and smiling pleasantly. "Good evening, sir."

She was gone before he could focus on a reply.

The world slipped in and out. He was dimply aware of water forced between his lips and he swallowed again and again. Then it stopped. He focused his eyes to see that Matthias was gone, but before he could decide whether Patrick and Duncan still lived he dropped into oblivion again.

***

When he woke the shed was dimly lit by the sun. His empty stomach clenched and growled. His dry throat felt tight and scratchy, and he worked up a mouthful of saliva. The thick warm fluid did little to quench his thirst, but it took the edge off.

His friends hung, their legs bent and their bodies dangling by their arms. His own shoulders screamed from having done the same and he wondered how long they were supposed to live like this. There had to be a way to escape...

A slave brought water, but no bread. Beldren gulped his portion and watched as Patrick tried to hold the liquid in his ruined mouth. The side of his face had doubled in size and a yellow crust formed over the incisions. Beldren remembered enough from his uncle's physician act to know that it was badly infected and that without treatment Patrick would likely die. He ran through the remedies in his head and tried to imagine which one "Doctor Joseph Fenchurch" would have prescribed. No doubt a round of bloodletting and then the useless application of something that smelled like coffee and rotten cabbage.

Being a doctor's apprentice was one of the worst years Beldren could remember. The lists of remedies and maladies was dizzying, and in most cases the remedies were worse than the sickness. Uncle Sweeny hadn't had a knack for physician's work. After the Goodmead's baby died under his care, he'd given up. Though it was usually forgotten in the retelling, the mob of angry villagers who'd discovered the fraud had something to do with the decision. A carriage ride through the night – with only the clothes on their backs and a sack of coins – later and they were no longer doctors, but displaced aristocracy.

Uncle Sweeny had almost gotten trapped into another marriage that time. It was only the suspicious nature of his intended's sister that had interrupted everything. A letter stating that Hubert who-ever had never lived in Sheffield was convincing enough that even Beldren's aunt-to-be flew into a rage. A night ride bareback on a stolen horse with only their clothes and a sack of coins later and they were back in London where they played tailor for two months until his uncle fell into school mastery for a few weeks...

The swindles went on and on. Each with a new name, new clothes, and a new history. He had played everything from orphan to illegitimate son of the King – not that that had lasted long. When the course was run and their fraud discovered it was a crazed dash through the night dodging angry people and sometimes his uncle's wives. He'd lost count of how many there were in total, but he knew it was enough to start a small colony should they ever get together.

The thought made him smile despite the pain in his arms and legs, and the emotion carried him on to other memories. To a large manor and a garden scented with summersweet. Joan stood among the flowers. Her blue dress matched her eyes, and her golden hair fell in curls around her puffed sleeves. She picked up her skirts and hurried towards him, her smile as bright as the sun. And then-

And then the truth was discovered. Her mother threw out the vagabond posing as her new husband, and the boy pretending to be his son. In his usual rush, Uncle Sweeny loaded up a bag of gold and gifts, but Beldren refused to go with him. The man who should have been like a father to him waited all of a minute, then shrugged and rode away, the gold clinking as he disappeared.

Beldren had gone back to the manor. He'd thrown himself at Joan's feet and begged her forgiveness. Her eyes were like ice and her words even colder, "I cannot forgive such betrayal. Go, and may we never meet again."

And go he had, all the way to the colonies as an indentured servant. He'd followed the promise of land but had gained very little for his labor, aside from callouses, sunburns, and blisters. And now this. Hung in a barn, to be fed upon by demons. Somehow the end seemed fitting given his life.

But he wasn't ready for an ending. Not yet. He needed to find a means of survival, a way to escape. If Uncle Sweeny had taught him anything it was that life could begin again and again. One had only to decide on the resurrection and reinvent themselves. If he escaped this hell he would travel to the frontier. Perhaps being a physician wasn't as bad as he remembered. Certainly better than farming...

His mind ran in circles. He called to Duncan and Patrick, but got only moans and ravings. With night came Thomasin and Mabel. Thomasin didn't bite Patrick, but lanced his arm and poured his blood into a cut glass pitcher. _Blood letting,_ Beldren thought. At least it seemed that they were trying to care for their prisoner. He watched the scarlet liquid, dark in the dim light, and felt his throat tighten with thirst. _No. 'tis not wine, but blood_.

Duncan raged and pulled against his chains, croaking threats. Thomasin finished the bloodletting and turned to him with disdain. She raised the vessel and Beldren thought she might throw it on her unruly prisoner. Instead she brought it to her lips and drank.

Beldren's stomach clenched and rolled. He looked away and Mabel gazed at him questioningly. "'Tis only a little blood. Is our gentleman so squeamish?"

"She drinks it!" Beldren cried.

"Of course, sir, what else should she do with it?"

Ismene marched into the building and grabbed the pitcher from her sister's hands. "She should take it to the house as she was told to do. Both of you, come. Now."

Thomasin made a face but followed the blonde. Mabel seemed to weigh her options and stepped close to Beldren. "I find that blood is best warm and alive, don't you, sir?" Before he could form an answer she bit his arm. It lasted only a moment before she pulled away regretfully. "Alas, Ismene has grand plans for our evening. I believe she'd have sent the slaves to collect the blood if she could get them to do it properly. No matter. Until we meet again."

She hurried away and Beldren bit his lip to stop from shouting after her. _Not yet. She's not softened up yet. Just a little longer._

Hopefully he had a little longer.

***

Beldren lost count of the days. A slave brought them water now and then, but no food. Though he told Mabel that Patrick might die, he couldn't get medical aid for him past the bloodletting. He knew from the medical journals he'd been force-fed that many physicians swore by the method, only it didn't seem to help. Patrick's face oozed puss and maggots. Initially he replied when spoken to but, after what was surely a couple of days, he stopped responding.

The sisters came and went. While Mabel was there Beldren tried to pull himself together, to concentrate, to use everything his uncle had taught him. He complimented her, commented that Ismene didn't seem to appreciate her, that clearly she was put upon and being held back by her sister's overbearing attitude.

In return she let details slip. Ismene and Thomasin were not her birth sisters – Ismene was not even her sister in blood, whatever that meant. Mabel and Thomasin had been together first and they'd met Ismene and decided to join her coven. At the phrase, the word "witch" flashed in Beldren's mind. He suffered a moment of horror, but decided that a witch – a human woman aided by demons – was better than one of the immortal creatures of evil.

He also discovered that they did not devour their victims flesh, but took only their blood. "We cannot eat anything solid," Mabel explained. "Not the flesh of animals or men, only blood."

"Can you not drink animal blood?" Beldren thought of the demons that surely controlled the witches. "Or does your master demand the sacrifice of man?"

"Master? I do not know what you mean, sir, unless you refer to Ismene. She does not forbid us to drink from animals, we have done so on many occasions, but the blood of man tastes sweeter. 'Tis a pity you would not enjoy the subtle flavors or I would show you."

Beldren's empty stomach clenched and he thought that blood would be better than nothing. "Perhaps I could?"

"The palate of the mortal is not so refined," Mabel explained. "Though perhaps you might still find some difference. Hold a moment and I will show you."

She moved to Patrick's limp form and bit him. He flinched and moaned and Duncan shouted at her to leave him alone, his words more Gaelic than English.

She released her victim and moved back to Beldren. He could see Patrick's blood staining her lips. He flinched, then made himself hold still as she pressed her gory mouth to his. Her tongue pressed against his lips, forcing them open, followed by a mouthful of warm, salty liquid.

Blood. Patrick's blood.

Duncan shouted in the background while Beldren swallowed and tried not to gag. Mabel pulled away to watch him as he licked the remainder from his lips and tried to work up enough saliva to wash the rest down.

"That is blood of man," she said. "Hold and I will find the other."

She disappeared behind him, but he could hear her rustling the hay that covered the floor.

"What does the foul monster do to you?" Duncan cried. "What games does she play?"

Before he could answer she was back, a tiny mouse in her hand. The creature writhed and squeaked as she held it to her mouth and bit. Beldren didn't have time to react before she jammed the furry thing against his lips and commanded him to "drink".

Though Duncan shouted at her to leave him be, Beldren did as she instructed. The salty liquid tasted the same to him and yielded less than a mouthful. His stomach rolled but screamed for more; for sustenance of any kind.

She discarded the dead rodent. "Were you able to taste the difference? Do you understand our preference now?"

Though he couldn't, he nodded. "Yes. Of course. And as I understand your preference, perhaps you might understand mine. To hang all day by these accursed chains, arms overextended and legs forced to stand, is overtaxing and torturous to say the least. Man does not treat his livestock so, and as that is what we are to you and your sisters, it seems only fair to extend that same courtesy to your own animals."

Duncan shouted that he was no animal, but Mabel seemed to turn the idea over. "I would have to ask Ismene, of course, but I see no harm in lowering you. You would have to stay chained, for though you compare yourself to the dumb beasts, you are not as compliant as they, and even livestock must be corralled."

He couldn't argue with her logic.

The sun was up when a pair of terrified slaves moved their chains from the hooks in the ceiling to iron loops set lower in the back wall. The new arrangement allowed them to sit or lay, and though Duncan seemed relieved, Patrick only curled in a ball among the dirty hay, shivering and sputtering.

Then even that ceased. Beldren woke the next day from a dream of London to see the slaves drag Patrick's discolored body away. Duncan raged and pulled at his chains, but his attempts were weak. He tried to stand only to fall to the floor again. Beldren wondered dimly what it would be like to have a brother, to watch his body being hauled away by the servants of monsters, but he couldn't empathize, couldn't find any feelings at all.

Duncan fell to fits of raving, and then to sleeping. He woke in the middle of his nap and called Beldren awake. "I fear I will soon follow my brother, Beldren. Should that happen do not let the demons eat my bones. Swear to me."

Beldren swore, his voice thick with thirst and sleep, and Duncan gave a satisfied nod before slipping back into oblivion himself.

His prediction proved true, and it was the next day that the slaves hauled Duncan's emaciated form out of the shed. As the last man, Beldren endured a feeding by all three sisters that night. Ismene's bite was the worst, for as she drank she shoved her way into his thoughts, his dreams, his memories. He felt her walking the streets of London beside him, roaming across the English countryside, pledging love to young ladies only to hurry away in the night.

Mabel drank last. When she'd finished her meal she wiped her mouth and frowned. "You look weak, sir. I fear you will not last much longer."

"Not without nourishment," he agreed.

"Ismene finds feeding the provisions to be a waste. They die so quickly, regardless. But you are strong. Perhaps you would last longer. I will speak to her."

He woke the next day to a chunk of bread and dried meat. He ate so fast that he retched the food back up. A second meal appeared near dark. This time, though his body screamed for speed, he kept control and chewed and swallowed slowly. When the sisters returned he endured another round of feeding, and another visit from Ismene's mental prodding.

With each day and each meal, Beldren's mind grew clearer, but the nightly blood loss kept him physically weak and too exhausted to fight. The air grew chillier, and he smelled autumn on the wind. He didn't know how long he'd been there, but thoughts of escape had long fled. He thought only of staying alive for another hour, another day, as though something wondrous might happen if he could only last that little longer.

The infection started in a bite on his arm and spread to others. His skin around the wounds grew red and puffy. Puss oozed down his shoulder and he picked the maggots out of his elbow. It was just as Mabel said; their provisions always died. That was what he was; a provision- a meal. Livestock.

It was only Mabel who came to him that night. "Ismene has organized a party to cheer her dreary mood. She has bled a slave, so we will not be coming out."

"You are here," he murmured.

"Yes, for I snuck out to make sure you were well. Ismene doesn't like us to come without her." She crouched in the hay in front of him and frowned. "You are ill, sir."

He nodded.

"'Tis a pity. Of all our guests in this ghastly colony you have been my favorite. There is no civilization here, no manners or gentle wills. All are brutish and rough with short tempers and uneducated words. I miss Europe. London and Paris. Have you been there?"

He nodded again.

"I thought you had, for your good breeding shows, even in these conditions. It is why you have lasted so much longer than the others we have kept. Tell me, was your father a lord?"

"Have you not walked in my mind as Ismene does?"

"No. Thomasin and I come from a different master, and so our gift is not the same as Ismene's. We do not wander thoughts, but instead can bring someone into our dreams. Would you like to see?"

He wondered vaguely what a witch dreamed about, and nodded again.

She smiled and then suddenly the barn, the hay, the smell of sweat and dirt and filth disappeared. He half lay on a hillock of green grass, his back propped against a stone wall. An ordered flower garden spread out before him. Heavy headed blossoms bobbed in the breeze and the sun warmed his skin.

"Where am I?" He tried to stand but invisible bonds pulled him back.

"Your body is still in the pantry," she explained. "But your mind, your senses, they are here with me. This is my secret garden, where I go when I miss the light and the life I lived before." She straightened and moved to a flower bush. "Poor Thomasin cannot come into her own dreams, only give them to others. I find that sad." She bent to sniff a flower, then gave a soft smile. "Though this moment is not as real for me as it might be for you. I have forgotten what the sun feels like, and the flowers' scent, and so they feel like nothing, smell like nothing. And perhaps it is because I know that this is not real, only a fancy. Ismene calls these illusions, and says that Thomasin and I are Illusionists, but I prefer to call us dream weavers. The title holds more beauty, don't you think?"

The garden faded and Beldren was back in the shed. The dark and filth that he had accepted over the slow weeks was now made unbearable by the short reprieve. The small taste of sunlight, of fresh air, had given him back his craving for escape, for life, for freedom.

At any cost.

He kept his voice light. "How did you receive this gift? Did you and your sisters summon this demon? Or did he choose you?"

"Demon? There was no demon, only another of our kind. She took my blood from me and gave me hers and I became like she; a walker of shadows who must drink blood to sustain my life. Thomasin was with her already, but our master's depressive nature and fits of rage were disconcerting. When our fifty year debt was paid we left her and meant to make our way in the world alone. Then we found Ismene and so formed our sisterhood."

Beldren's mind clicked through her story and the implications. "You call your debt a fifty-year debt, but surely you cannot mean actual years? You are a maid of no more than nineteen unless my eyes be deceived."

She giggled. "How you flatter me, sir, for I am more than two hundred years! With this gift comes another, that of immortality. I will walk the shadows until Judgement Day, as will all of my kind. Neither sickness nor the decay of time will ever touch us. I was on my death bed, you see, when she came to me and plucked me from the mortal world and into this one. In her blood was life immortal."

Beldren was nearly giddy with the possibilities her words opened. Had he been told this a year ago he'd have never believed it, but now, after everything he'd seen, everything he'd been through, it sounded real and sane, and desirable. "You say another of your kind gave you their blood and so healed and saved you to live forever?" She nodded. "And you could do the same? Give this gift to another?"

Mabel's brows arched in surprise. "Yes, I imagine. I have never tried, but there are no impediments that I know of. Excepting I would first require Ismene's permission, as the master of our coven."

With those words reality crashed back. Ismene would never allow her to make him one of them. She would leave him in the shed to die of infection, as Patrick had died. "I find it interesting that you must always ask Ismene's permission, as though she has a superior intellect and needs to approve your actions."

"Sir, you misunderstand. It is not that she finds my intelligence less. She is the master, which makes her the head of the coven."

"I apologize. It is trust in that intelligence that is lacking."

"Of course it is not. Ismene trusts us." Despite Mabel's words, her voice sounded unsure.

"I am sure she does. That is why she allows you to come and go as you please, such as to the pantry."

"Ismene worries that we will release the provender. Thomasin did so once. It was a young boy of nine or ten that reminded her of her dead son. Ismene was angry for months over that rebellion."

"Rebellion. Yes, because doing something that was not approved by Ismene would be the same as rebelling against a slave's master."

Mabel looked aggravated. "You twist my words, sir."

"No, you twist their meaning in your mind because you love Ismene and do not wish to see the ill in her, though you do see it. You see it in the way she barks orders at you, in the way she cuts off your words, in the way she must always feed first, enter and exit first, while you and Thomasin follow, as slaves do their master, as do citizens who are of a lower class than their lord."

"That is not- It is not so."

"Of course not. My mistake. I know only what I have seen. No doubt when you are away from the pantry her treatment of you changes; she is kinder, gentler, listens to what you have to say, what you think and want. Allows you a say in all things governing the household."

Mabel's frown deepened. "Not precisely. But should I want something deeply and say to her that I must have it so, she would not object."

"As she did not object to Thomasin freeing the child? Ah, but you would know Ismene better than I. She is your master, to whom you owe a debt."

"I owe her no debt," Mabel snapped. "We have sworn loyalty to her, but such a union may be dissolved at will. We stay because we choose to do so."

Beldren swallowed hard, his mouth and throat dry with fever and so much speech. "Then you are free to do as you wish, and as such do not need to ask Ismene's permission, as she is not your mother nor your owner, but your equal. One does not need permission of equals."

"Perhaps," Mabel said slowly.

He managed a rough chuckle. "I must disagree with such notions. I fear if you were to do something she did not approve of – for instance to pass your gift to someone without permission – she would show the face of a tyrant and exact a severe punishment. But come, if you are happy in such an arrangement – happy to be ruled – then who am I to say anything?"

"Ismene is no tyrant!" Mabel glared. "What she does, she does for our own protection and betterment. Should I wish to bring another into our circle she would not punish, but welcome! I would never be happy to be ruled, to be lorded over!"

"And if Ismene showed you wrong, if she proved her tyrannical nature and revealed the truth of her opinions? For example if she were to destroy one whom you had given the gift to?"

"Thomasin and I would leave! We would never stay with one who would murder our own kind, or who would dictate such things to us without care for our own wants and desires!"

Beldren relaxed, the challenge gone from his tone. "And so I believe you would, for you are brave and do not need Ismene, only stay with her out of love. I would hope she returns the same love to you."

"She does, and I will show you."

"How?"

Her face scrunched in thought. "I-I will do something without permission, and you will see that she may chastise, but she is not tyrannical in her punishments."

"What will you do?" Beldren asked. "Tell her you have been to the pantry? Such an infraction would not earn more than chastisement, even from a dictator. That will prove nothing. The crime must be sufficient that a tyrant would act with swift retribution."

"Such as?"

Beldren managed a small shrug. "What would make her angry?"

"She has forbidden us to go to the village. I could disobey that command."

"That is an excellent idea." He feigned thought. "Though such a trip might prove dangerous. The local population may not take kindly to what you are. You cannot be killed, but you could be detained, as I have been."

"We can be killed by violence," she murmured. "Neither less, you are right. Such a trip would take time and the sun would burn me." Mabel paced a small circle. "I could release you, but in truth I do not think you would get far, certainly not far enough to prove her anger. Not in your condition."

"I believe you are right. Already the infection has given me a fever. Delirium and death are not far behind. It is a question whether I will even live to see my own words proved false."

Mabel nodded absently and continued to mutter ideas. Each one was rejected. At last she stopped and turned to him with triumphant eyes. "I could give the gift to you! Not only would it anger her, but then you would have life to see that she is not the tyrant you so paint her."

Beldren held back a smug smile. He must not appear too eager. "Would such a thing as that be painful? I do not know if I could endure more after these long weeks."

She deflated a little. "It does cause some discomfort as the body changes. But it was such that I survived it, even on my deathbed. Surely a man as strong as yourself could do as well as I?"

"It could be tried," he agreed. "Though I fear Ismene will use the occasion to show her true nature."

Mabel hurried and knelt in front of him. "We will see. I must bite you now and drink you dry, then I will give you my blood to drink. Be brave and do not cry out, for if the process is interrupted then it will turn ill for you."

He nodded his understanding and held himself still as she leaned in and bit. He closed his eyes and tried to float away, as he'd learned to do when they drank from him. As the moments passed, and still she drank, self-preservation pulled him back. His heart hammered in his chest and his instincts screamed at him to fight her, to stop the blood loss, to save himself. How could he know that what she spoke was truth and that she was not really killing him?

His uncle's voice echoed through his head, _"Stay calm, boy, and do not give away the game!"_

Calm. He must stay calm.

The thought disappeared in a dizzy panic as the room smeared and spun. She released him and he was dimly aware off falling back into the hay, his arms stretched above him. Something pressed against his lips, as the mouse had done those long days ago, only smooth and not furry. He could hear her in his memory, telling him to drink, and so he did. Gulp after gulp of burning hot liquid; salty, spicy, sweet, like some kind of Christmas punch meant to intoxicate.

At last she pulled away, cradling her bleeding arm. "That is enough! More and I will be drained myself."

Beldren blinked at her, at her bright red hair worn in curls around her head, at her bright blue dress, at her ridiculous puffed sleeves and pale cleavage, at the crimson smeared on her chin. Blood. His blood.

And then the pain came: white hot needles that pierced his flesh. He stifled a scream and pulled his chains, his back arched in agony. Mabel stayed back until the fit ended. Then she drew close and fingered the rusty cuffs at his wrists. "I do not have the key, I fear, but I will pull them free."

She moved to the wall and gripped the chains. With an unlady-like grunt she pulled first one, then the other from their restraints. With nothing to hold him up any longer, Beldren fell back to the hay and lay curled in a ball of burning pain. When it passed, he sat up, his chest heaving, and his dry throat screaming for water.

Mabel offered him a hand up. As he accepted, he noted that he could see her in stunning detail, as though the sun lit the interior of his prison. Not just her, but all of the his confines; he could see the rusty chains snaking against the dirt, the dented pan his dinner had come in, the bright eyed rat that crouched in the corner, and the spider that hung on a slender thread from the rafters. More overpowering than the vision was the smell, as if a sewer had opened up at his feet.

He covered his nose and she nodded. "The pantry is quite pungent, but so are all livestock. Come, I will take you to Ismene, then you will bathe and we will find some fresh clothes for you."

Walking was harder than he'd thought, and so he let Mabel help him to the mansion. He ran through a plan in his head. Once he recovered he could escape – perhaps kill Ismene. But where would he escape to? Mabel had mentioned that the sun burned her. Would it burn him? And when he could not eat but must drink blood, what would happen? Frontiersmen might kill him, or worse hold him prisoner, believing him to be a demon as he had once believed the sisters to be.

Mabel opened the back door and eased him into the house. His eyes moved from object to object, from gilt to silk, to paraffin candles and lace. All the beautiful things he and his uncle had spent years trying to attain, and here they were, at last. Why should he fly from this place at all? Why not stay and revel in the riches, in this new gift, in the so-called immortality?

Ismene stepped through the doorway, her face hard. "What is the meaning of this? What have you done?" She met Beldren's eyes and for once he did not mind her in his head. He let her see what she wished, let her hear Mabel's words.

" _And if Ismene showed you wrong, if she proved her tyrannical nature and revealed the truth of her opinions? For example if she were to destroy one whom you had given the gift to?"_

" _Thomasin and I would leave! We would never stay with one who would murder our own kind, or who would dictate such things to us without care for our own wants and desires!"_

Ismene's anger turned to fury, and Beldren knew that he had her. She had taken these two – children of another maker – because she did not want to be alone. Though she set herself up as their master, better to let them break her rules than to be left with only the company of empty rooms.

He could not stop the self-satisfied twinkle in his eye as her hatred and anger faded into a cold, emotionless mask. "Congratulations, Mabel. You have your first fledgling. Clean him, and then summon one of the slave children for his meal. He will need to feed."

As she moved away with sharp, purposeful steps, Beldren let his eyes roam the treasure stuffed room. Uncle Sweeney would be jealous indeed.

*****

If you enjoyed this story you might like to read more of Joleene's writing. Such as...

Vampire Morsels

by Joleene Naylor

An illustrated collection of seventeen short stories, each about a different character from the Amaranthine universe. Includes:

Kateesha - When Kateesha and her partner are sent to apprehend a rogue coven, things go awry and carry terrible consequences.

Michael - Michael isn't interested in finding a job, so his mother finds one for him. If only she'd known she was sending him to work for vampires.

Troy - Claudius is having a get together, and leaves Troy in charge of greeting the guests. But what happens when he finds himself stuck babysitting a pretty boy vampire?

Jesslynn - When Jesslynn's baby gets sick, she sees only way to save him; by discovering whatever dark ritual keeps their neighbor, Jorick, healthy and eternally young. She gets more than she bargained for.

Also includes: Velnya, Sarah, Nirel, Kariss, Herrick, Elsa, Claudius, Bethina, Benjamin, Ashton, Arowenia, Alexander and Adam

*****

**Joleene Naylor is the author of the glitter-less** Amaranthine series, a world where vampires aren't for children. As a compliment to the novel series, she has also written several short stories, including the _Vampire Morsels_ collection, and the handbook _The Amaranthine Files_.

In what little time is left she watches anime and updates her blogs, all from a crooked Victorian house in Villisca, Iowa. Between her husband and her pets, she is never lonely, and should she ever disappear one might look for her on a beach in Tahiti, sipping a tropical drink and wearing a disguise.

**Website** : http://JoleeneNaylor.com

# Heart's Lust

By LC Cooper

I behaved no differently than the rest of the guys in our office. Unashamed, we swarmed and hovered around the new girl, while she made it obvious she was enjoying our attention. Buried in offers to take her to lunch, I was elated that she accepted mine. It wasn't the steamy, sultry getaway I had fantasized, but the fact that such a gorgeous woman wanted to be with me, if even for a quick lunch in the company cafeteria, was a heavenly revelation.

You see, I wasn't the best looking guy; actually, the belly and receding hairline kept me lonely in the bars until just before closing time. Heather, on the other hand, was eye candy. Hired by the company's president himself, everyone knew she'd follow the same fast-track the other hotties did. Her way up the corporate ladder contained rungs attached to his bed. None of us cellar dwellers were fooled into believing any of us would nail this beauty. She was stratospherically out of our, my, league, so I wondered why she accepted my invitation to lunch. Certainly, my hesitancy was merited. She even turned down our broad collection of dashing alpha-male sales guys to be with me.

"Hey," I thought with a shrug, "why rock the boat?" I was content munching my sandwich while sitting across the table from such an engaging woman.

"You seem nice and sincere," Heather purred, adding a wink. Then her smile turned into a frowny pout. "I know what guys think of me, but the way you look, all dumpy and pasty, you'd know there never was a chance in hell, which is why I agreed to join you on this pleasantly platonic lunch."

My courage and manliness weren't the only things shriveled by her brutality. I stammered to reply, but what was the point? With this one scathing comment, it was perfectly clear Heather was well suited for the VP position freshly vacated for her.

After cudding the remainder of my fermented silage, I humbly shuffled to my center-aisle cubicle. The flies swept between Heather and my desks, either demanding details from me, or jockeying for position with her. My bovine tail kept the pests off me, whereas Heather oozed honey, encouraging their competition. She played the giggly-newbie role to a T.

The following week, Heather was relocated to her well-earned VP office within the lofty Mahogany Row grotto. Her desk on my floor wasn't the only one emptied though. Three of the salesmen that had most strongly come onto Heather were seeking new employment opportunities outside our company. Such a maneuver kept the rest of us focused on our jobs and no longer on Heather's rack. I couldn't stop thinking about her though.

Instead of generating another meaningless spreadsheet for my boss, I often spent the time wishing I were the company president, holding Heather all night long. It was odd that as soon as my mind would drift back to the workday tedium, something would jar me, and I'd return to my favorite distraction. The latest occurred moments before I began my routine of shutting down for the weekend. I gave up, however, when I had the sensation that someone was watching me.

I looked up from my computer and saw Heather peering at me from over my cubicle wall. "Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't know you were there, Ms....," I stammered as I struggled to stand.

"Please, you can still call me Heather," she whispered. She appeared sad. "Can we talk?" she quietly asked as she wiggled her index finger for me to follow her.

This pretty pin-up wanted me to join her on a clandestine mission; who was I to argue? Her mysteriousness got my imagination reeling. I stealthily strode out of my cube as her shapely butt disappeared around the corner that lead to the conference rooms.

I quickened my pace and thought I caught up with her, but when I turned the same corner, Heather was gone. Pathetically anxious, I flung open doors to empty conference rooms. I reached for the light switch in the final one, but as I did, something or someone grabbed my arm and yanked, tossing me onto a two-seater sofa.

"Stay there," Heather's husky, but sweet, voice commanded from the darkened corner behind the door. She plopped down against my leg after pressing the room's door closed.

Admittedly, I was scared to death. Unaccustomed to corporate skulking, I was a quivering pile of mush inside. Heather didn't do much to quell my fears.

"This is awkward, and I don't know where to begin," she said while wringing her hands. She drew in a deep breath, as if mustering up her courage, and said, "Okay, here goes... whew... this is so unlike me."

Emboldened by her frailty, I leapt into the role of gladiator-warrior-hero, and asked, "What's wrong, Heather? What's bothering you?" as if I had magical healing powers. For God's sake, I was only a glorified number-cruncher. How was I to help this powerful vixen? I almost mockingly chuckled at the absurdity of the chasm between us.

Heather tightened her lips closed, as if they were the only thing preventing a dreadful secret from taking flight. After completing what appeared to be an argument with her ethics, Heather said, "Look, there's something I need to tell you, but you must swear never to repeat it. I have to be able to trust you with all my heart." To emphasize her point, she grabbed my hand and pressed its palm into her cleavage. "You are the only person I feel I can trust, Michael Gabriel."

Who was I to argue? My hand was resting between the most amazing set of tits the world has ever seen... _my_ hand. Oh, I was so full of crap when I opened my mouth. At first, I babbled in tongues, but after two false starts, I managed to engage my other brain. I disappointed Heather, however, when I timidly yapped, "If this is a matter of corporate espionage or embezzlement, have you contacted the head of security?"

Heather scrunched her face up and said, "Really? You have your hand resting between my breasts and I'm pleading for your help, and all you can offer is to contact the rent-a-cops?" She started to pull my hand away, so, sweating profusely, I recovered, promising my unconditional loyalty, which earned me more time to explore her cleavage.

"Unlike the other men in this company, you come across as genuine, sincere, and..."

I waited, holding my breath. I prayed she wouldn't say obedient. I wasn't so shallow to trash my dignity in exchange for a cheap feel and a leash. I had morals – I was almost certain of it.

"... tender," she sighed while staring deeply into my darting eyes. "I feel, so... so vulnerable and used." She leaned in toward me and kissed me passionately on the mouth while my hand grazed her amazingly tight breast. She moaned and pressed my hand firmly against her.

Inhibitions and conscience lost, I moved in for more, but suddenly Heather pulled away and pushed my hand onto my own leg.

"Oh, my, we must stop," she said while panting. "This isn't right. I'm married, after all."

"Huh?" my Neolithic brain mumbled. To complete the picture, all I needed was a drool cup resting beneath my chin. Good Lord, I was a mess. "Um," I said, beginning to punch through the fog of desire, "are you trying to seduce me?"

"Heavens no, Michael Gabriel! Is that really what you think of me? I turn to you, someone I hoped could be a trusted friend, but instead, you jump in and take advantage of me during a weak moment. How dare you," she hissed as she began to stand.

Completely confused and reeling, I said, "I didn't mean anything of the sort, Heather. Please, please sit back down. I promise to behave. I really do want to help you. I promise." I patted the sofa cushion she had occupied and then slid away from it, providing her with a buffer of trust.

"Okay," she warily said, "but don't try that again. My husband would kill you. He's a very, very jealous man... and God forbid if Henry, the president, found out what you did. There wouldn't be a safe place anywhere on Earth where you could hide."

"I swear I'm here for you, Heather. Please trust me to keep my hands to myself."

"That's better," she huffed before dropping into the opposite corner of the small sofa. "I'd like your advice on something, so here goes: During an argument early this morning, Henry admitted he hired me because he was crazy about me and wants to be with me all the time."

"That two-timer," I fumed, playing along, because everyone in the frigging company knew he hired Heather to bang her. "So, he wants to have an affair with you. But in doing so, he'd be cheating on his wife."

"Yeah, so... ?"

"Um nothing. Please do continue if you must." If committing adultery wasn't bothering her, I wasn't sure I wanted to hear anything else she had to say. Depraved and illegal goings-on in the company were none of my business. That's what the HR director told me anyway.

"My husband, it's about my husband, Adolf. He's always up to no good, and I don't want him finding out about Henry."

"Oh, come on," I thought. "Is this for real? Am I on some hidden-camera show? I lifted the pillow next to me, searching for a microphone and the room for a camera. No one in the world falls into such a stupidly obvious trap. Did she want me to rat on her husband. With a name like Adolf, I had no problem imagining the guy was a mobster or drug dealer. Exasperated, yet still horny, my heads battled for control of the conversation. "What, exactly, do you want from me, Heather?"

"A friend, Michael Gabriel," she sighed. "I need a close, supportive friend who won't judge me – someone who will listen and give me helpful feedback. I had hoped you weren't like all the others... but maybe I was wrong." She set her purse in her lap and dug out her lipstick and mirror. Ignoring the desperate look on my face, she deftly applied lipstick to the supple lips I had kissed only minutes before. She coyly glanced at me and then back into her compact's mirror. "Can't walk around the building with smeared lipstick. Kind of obvious what people would think, you know?"

My crotch could only get my mouth to grunt in agreement; my brain had checked out, having left for a quick race around Fantasyland. Finally realizing Heather was yearning for a confidant and companion, I blurted out, "You can count on me, Heather. I'll be there for you."

"Good!" She reached over and patted my inner thigh to reinforce her pleasure with my decision.

Once again, I had to reel my childish brain in, and with the iron will of an archangel, ignored what everyone in the world knew was a tease. Was she testing my resolve? I chose to assume she was, so I lightly patted her hand in response, suppressing the urge to shove it against my aching member. I was so confused, so conflicted.

Relieved, though not happy, I watched as Heather lightly let her hand drop to the sofa cushion. She let out a frustrated breath, as if disappointed that she didn't get me to react. Then, just when I believed my dignity was rebounding, Heather said something that haunts me to this day.

"Before we part, there is something I must tell you..."

"Oh, come on – enough of this rollercoaster ride already," I thought, and then my brain shut down for good.

"It's embarrassing to say this. I mean, I'm usually not so forward and blunt..."

"Uh huh," I grunted as the little head checked in.

"but, I kind of like you." She paused, scanned the room, and then added, "I think you're cute." With that, she shot up and off the sofa and rushed out of the conference room like a blushing teenager.

I couldn't absorb all that had happened. I remained sitting on the sofa for at least another fifteen minutes, wrestling with thoughts that she was setting me up versus the possibility she genuinely liked me. Finally, I sloughed off the sofa and trudged back to my hovel. Thankfully, everyone had gone home already, so I didn't have to explain the wet spot on my pants.

I drove home as I always did on Friday nights, stopping to pick up a sub and a movie. This weekend felt differently, however, as if the planets had aligned so that Heather and I could be together. Thus began weeks of flirting and passionate secretive meetings. Always a gentleman, I never bragged or shared with others. Well, after a co-worker discovered lipstick on my collar, I absentmindedly admitted it was Heather's. I guess I wasn't surprised by my associate's reaction: she laughed hysterically, much to my relief.

Looking back, I admit I was obsessed with Heather. Her body was magnificent; her touch, soft and caring, kept me wound up and longing for more; and she always greeted me with a warm hug and an earnest smile. Oh, how I yearned for her. I had fallen head over heels, yet I was sworn to secrecy. Our indiscretions weren't newsworthy as they never evolved above a flirtatious crush. I longed to be with her every minute of the day. I lived and breathed for Heather, and although I wanted much more, Heather seemed satisfied with our current arrangement.

Oddly, I also found myself daydreaming about what it must be like to be Adolf, Heather's husband. I couldn't remember the number of times I had prayed to be him. He was probably suave, debonair, great looking, athletic, and loaded with money. I was certain he had the playboy lifestyle since he had such a terrific wife.

It was mid-October when I screwed up my courage to tell Heather exactly how I felt about her and about our relationship.

"Relationship? What relationship?" she angrily muttered from across the conference-room's table. "An arrangement is what I agreed to, Michael Gabriel. I'm a married woman..."

"... who's having an affair with our company's president. Oh, don't look so shocked, Heather. Everyone, even the window-washing crew, know. Who do you think saw you two doing it in his office? That's right... the window washers."

"Remind me to have them fired," she angrily shot back. "Hey, my relationship with my boss is none of your business!"

"Oh, so you have a relationship with your boss, but with me, it's merely a civil agreement, an arrangement, you called it."

"Before today, I didn't hear you complaining."

"Starving dogs don't complain when tossed the occasional bone."

"I suggest you change your attitude and tone before you get yourself fired, Michael Gabriel. Good God, I thought you were different – someone I could trust and hang out with. Yet, you sit here and judge me, pleading for more of me. Well, I'm not interested in being your friend any longer," and with that, she shoved the chair backward and braced to stand.

I scrambled to throw together an apology. Indeed, her friendship was very, very important to me, I reassured her, and I promised to not let her down again.

Seeming appeased, Heather smoothed out her skirt and settled into the chair. She shook her head sadly, though, and then said, "I'm not so sure I can trust you any longer."

"You can! I will prove it to you – you'll see."

"No, you really screwed up this time by pushing too hard, Michael Gabriel. It's going to take something astounding to convince me we're still friends."

"Name it," I confidently said. "I'd do anything for you, Heather."

"Hmmm, now that you mention it, there is something you can do to redeem yourself." She paused and tapped her luscious lips with a fingertip, as if deep in thought. "Here's the situation: I have reason to believe my husband is cheating on me..."

"Adolf? He's got it made. Why would he cheat on you? You're perfect – you're gorgeous," I loudly sighed, which resulted in an awkward silence. This is when I noticed the bruise. "My God, what happened to you, Heather?"

She didn't try to hide it with her hands. Instead, she dropped her head in shame. "Adolf found out about my relationship with Henry..."

"So, Adolf slugged you?" I felt my ire bubbling. Nothing made me more furious than seeing a sweet woman broken by an out-of-control man.

"Worse... the cheek is all that's visible. You should see the rest of me," she softly sobbed.

Oh, how I wanted to, but not under these conditions. "If only I were your husband, Heather, I'd..."

"Please stop there, Michael Gabriel. You're a nice guy, but you don't deserve a wreck like me," she sniffled while watching me out of the corner of her eye. "Adolf was right, it's all my fault. If I hadn't cheated on him, he wouldn't have roughed me up."

"No one deserves to be beaten up," I spat, unable to believe I was defending her adulterous affair with our sleezeball boss. I tried again: "You know, if I were your husband, I'd treat you like the queen you are."

Heather grimaced, and then forced a smile. "I don't deserve a friend like you. See? Even when I confessed my affair to you, you didn't judge me."

Actually, I did, but I was so damned in love that I easily dismissed her betrayal. My heart ached, hoping and praying for the day when she'd fall in love with me and forget all about Adolf and Henry. Then, she said the words that I was longing to hear. Well, they weren't _the_ words, but they were a close second.

"I need you," Heather sighed.

I perked up, straining forward to hear more, but then wished I hadn't.

"I need you to come to my house and spy on Adolf. I want to know who he's seeing. Take photos, watch him like a hawk. He's not the only one who's going to have ammunition if our marriage ends up in divorce court."

"Um, I'm not very comfortable with breaking into your house or watching him from the road. What if he sees me? He's a monster, right? He'll kill me."

Heather grinned as if she'd developed the perfect plan. "I have an idea. Friday, a painting crew is supposed to be at our house to repaint the rooms on the second floor. You can pretend to be one of the painters. Our master bedroom and office are on that floor, too, so you can pretty much watch Adolf all day long since he works from home."

"Then, what will you do with the information I hand over to you? Nail Adolf to the cross?"

"I suppose I'll give it to an attorney... after I hire one."

Helping Heather get Adolf out of the picture meant that I was one step closer to realizing my dream. Then, there was her affair with Henry, the company's president. I discretely asked about the matter, hoping to drive a wedge there, too.

"Oh, it needs to be over," Heather huffed. "Henry's wife and kids are constantly getting in the way. If they're not tripping us up, the paparazzi are driving me nuts. Why, one guy snapped a photo of me in the shower."

"The lucky bastard," I thought, but asked, "What did you do?"

"The guy was a grifter. He extorted $100,000 from me to keep the photo out of the papers."

While pretending to listen, I came up with an idea that I then pitched to Heather. I told her that in order to rid her of Henry, I would gladly provide the cops with spreadsheets containing the most damning evidence of Henry's corporate misdeeds.

He'd be arrested, which meant, finally, Heather would be mine. I was almost certain Heather would joyfully leap into my arms for rescuing her from the two evil men in her life. Oh, how much closer I was to her. Everything was coming together nicely for me. Fantasizing about her and my honeymoon became my nightly ritual, an almost religious experience.

Thursday evening arrived. On my way home from work, I slinked into a hardware store and purchased a painter's set of overalls, a cap, and an assortment of brushes, rollers, and other props.

Early Friday morning, I watched Heather drive out of her garage, just as I had done so many times before. This day, however, I was invited inside. No longer would I sneak onto the property to peer into a window or two.

"Hey," came the gruff voice from the speakerbox. "You painters aren't supposed to be here for another hour. Beat it... Oh, never mind."

"Ah, Adolf," I thought, "you certainly deserve what's coming, you cheating mother...,"

The front door creaked open far enough for an eye to peer out at me. "Go around back and come in through the garage where I've got the paint buckets stored. Where's everyone else?"

"Soon be here. My wife drop me off early so she go to work," I replied with a really poor Spanish accent.

"Fine," he grumbled before shoving the door closed and locking it.

I pretended to trudge, as a painter would, I imagined, to the back of the house, all the while absorbing every detail of my love's home and gardens. The garage door opened slowly, which gave me a few extra moments to study Adolf's candy-apple red convertible. "Clean and tidy," I remarked just before inconspicuously flicking my wad of chewing gum beneath the sport scar's dashboard. "Paybacks are hell, eh, buddy?" I chuckled at the revenge I extracted from his precious ride. "There's more where that came from, oh yeah!" I hummed.

The door at the top of the garage's steps flew open, and a burly, half-naked man filled the doorframe. "I'm working from home today, so you guys need to keep it down, understand? No more loud radios blaring cha-cha music, got it?"

I nodded and said, "Sí, Senor," in my most-southern drawl, mocking the brutish Adolf, but he didn't catch on. I felt energized. Adolf may have the brawn, but I was easily his mental master.

I thought it was strange he was half-dressed. Heather said he works out and showers very early every day; yet, I just saw him dripping wet as if he had taken a shower. "This must mean," I thought, punctuated by a broadening grin, "that his lover is still inside the house."

I was dying to get inside, so I yelled up as I climbed the set of steps, "Senor, bathroom, por favor?" I jiggled the locked doorknob to add to my sense of urgency, a move that I hoped would piss him off enough to open the door to me.

"Across the hall," Adolf barked as he flung the door open and walked away. "Hey, what was that sound?" he angrily asked in response to the click of my camera.

I quickly recovered with, "I must have a nail in my shoe."

"I thought you spoke Spanish," he growled, eyes narrowing.

"Sí, but I know some English. My sister teach me," I said, proudly patting my chest like a stereotypical buffoon.

He pointed his index finger at me and snarled, "I'm watching you, punk. Don't try to steal anything or I'll toss you and your pals out on your asses."

I nodded and waved in understanding as I stared at the ground, pretending to have been humbled. I watched for Adolf to turn around and walk down the long hallway before I ducked into the bathroom. I smiled when I heard the sound of a woman's laugh. It came through the overhead air duct. "Bingo... gotcha now, you gorilla!" After a brief look at the photos I'd already taken, I slid my camera into a chest pocket, then flushed the toilet and pretended to wash my hands. I remained in the bathroom when I heard the doorbell ring and Adolf's muffled answer.

Soon, a horde of painters were assembled in the garage. Thankfully, as I slipped in among them, most didn't know each other. We all grabbed paint cans and marched up the garage's steps and into the house. I heard an upstairs door slam just before the job's foreman said, "Okay, boys, we have only three hours to paint the rooms and hallway. Get to it."

We meandered up the inside staircase and fanned out, each heading for our assigned room. I ducked into the master bedroom and snapped a dozen photos, many containing a pair of women's pants that couldn't have belonged to Heather; the legs were much longer than hers. Then, the bra lying alongside the pants was a 34C. Heather was clearly at least a 40D. As a boy, I studied the Sears catalogs – I knew bra sizes.

Then, I raced out of the bedroom and dipped my paintbrush into a paint can just as Adolf opened the door to what appeared to be his office. He shoved past me, muttering. I watched as he stopped in front of the foreman and warned him of the consequences if anything was stolen or broken.

"I have to leave, with my, um, business partner," Adolf grunted while, I thought, he was looking directly at me. Startled by his piercing stare, I frantically searched for a way to escape the house. My desire to flee was cut short when an amazingly tall woman flitted by me. I never heard her approach, so I guessed she had been in the office with Adolf. She dashed into the master bedroom. I heard rustling coming from near the bed, so I assumed the bra and pants were hers. Glancing out of the corner of my eye, I was relieved to see that Adolf wasn't paying attention to me. He was arguing with the foreman instead. The statuesque woman poked her head out of the bedroom door, and seeing the coast was clear, sprang after Adolf. Unknown to either of them, I was snapping one picture after another.

Once I heard Adolf's car peel out of the driveway, I dropped my paintbrush and sauntered back into the master bedroom. The bra and pants were gone and the bed had been made. The evidence was overwhelming that Adolf was cheating on Heather.

I climbed out of my painter's overalls and stuffed them into a plastic sack I hid in the pocket. No longer identifiable as a painter, I roamed the house at will, snapping photos for Heather... and for me. I ran my fingers across the fine marbles and woods crafted into furnishings. I opened kitchen cabinets and envisioned what Adolf and Heather discussed during a meal. I smiled at the thought that, very soon, all this would be mine.

How I yearned to be in Adolf's shoes. I grinned. The guy would be gone for a while, so why not? I strolled down the hall and back into the master bedroom. Into his closet I went, rummaging through his clothes, coats, shoes, and ties. There was no point in trying any of the clothes on; Adolf's shirts were tailored to his muscular physique, while his pants were a trim and narrow 34 waist. I think the last time I was able to slip into size-34 pants was sometime during puberty.

Adolf's shoes, however, were a different story. I easily and comfortably slipped my feet into a pair of Ferragamo alligator lace-ups. There was enough space to wiggle my toes. Wow, they felt amazing; so much so that I decided to keep them on. I justified doing so because if I were to be Heather's next husband, I needed to start dressing the part. Besides, Adolf wouldn't miss them. To replace the shoes, he could turn in an insurance claim against the painting contractor.

I was leaving the kitchen to walk onto the back patio when I noticed a fountain loudly gurgling outside the master bedroom's window. I jammed my hand in my pocket and fished out a penny and rested it atop my bent thumb and index finger. I closed my eyes and made a wish, praying to be Heather's husband.

The coin plopped into an upper tier of the fountain, and then playfully rolled along the uneven surfaces until it came to rest beneath a tiny, trickling waterfall. I smiled smugly, confident my wish would come true.

A jarring crunch followed by screaming shoved me out of my happy trance. I looked out beyond the patio's rail and then smirked; God was smiling down on me. At the end of the street, two houses away, Heather was standing outside her wrecked car, hands planted on her hips. She was yelling at Adolf and his lover as they scurried to get out of his burning convertible. I loved Heather's ingenuity and cunning: She rammed her car into the side of his to stop them during their return to Adolf and Heather's house.

I slid my camera out of its pocket and then braced my leg against the patio's railing to get the best quality photographs. All my photos would be incriminating enough to provide the coup de grâce to Heather and Adolf's marriage. The day couldn't be going any better for me.

Also, I wasn't worried about Henry and Heather's affair any longer. The day before, I had mailed a large envelope to a judge's office. It was crammed full of spreadsheets that Henry had ordered to be doctored – the kind of information that sends corporate officers to prison for decades.

"Thank you, God," I sighed while looking up at the sky. Although Heather, Adolf, and his lover were screaming at each other, I only heard the cheery clinking of wedding bells and champagne glasses.

"She's got a gun!"

This revelation startled me, and I looked out at the angry trio. I saw the gun. Thankfully, it wasn't Heather holding it, although she certainly was within her rights to shoot her cheating husband. Actually, it was Adolf's lover who held the gun and she was pointing it at Heather.

"No!" I screamed, which distracted the pistol-wielding woman. She pulled the trigger at the same moment she turned to face me – to where the sound of my yell came from. The shot caught Adolf in the middle of his forehead.

"Aaarrrrgghhh!" I screamed through a blast of pain. The sensation of my skull splitting in two vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. "What the hell was th..." I stopped talking and tried to look around, but all I could see was black and diffused reds. "Shit," I exclaimed, "I've been shot!"

"You most certainly have," an ominous voice hissed. "How's it feel?"

"Horrible! I've got a splitting headache and I can't see. Can you help me?"

"Um, I suppose I could, but that's really not my thing," he cackled. "By the way, welcome to Hell."

"Wh-what?" I sputtered. Suddenly, a ghastly figure attached to the voice strode into sight. I instinctively slammed my eyes shut and prayed to wake up from this nightmare. I screamed in terror when I again opened my eyes. The demon's face was inches from mine. The monster had crept forward, waiting for me to open my eyes again before saying another word.

"Boo?" the beast asked and then roared with demonic laughter, as the voices of millions of tormented souls screeched and howled their approval.

"No, this – this can't be! I don't belong here! There must be some kind of mistake."

The demon shook his head and clicked his tongue disapprovingly as he studied his blood-stained fingernails. "Oh, I assure you, there was no mistake."

"But, but I was alive."

"Yes? What's your point?"

"I did nothing wrong, certainly nothing to deserve being sent here."

"Oh really? You don't say? Well, according to the list I have in my hand," the demon growled while unraveling a piece of parchment. "It says here that you were a wife-beating and mentally-abusive husband..."

Relieved, I sighed, chuckled and said, "You can stop right there. I knew this was a mistake. I've never been married."

"Hmm, is that so? Well, it also states you murdered a man and his daughter several years ago during a hit-and-run accident. You were driving drunk. Lucky for you, eh, that the cops never caught you," the beast snarled.

Again, I protested, but each of my arguments went unanswered. Instead, the demon continued to rattle off charge after charge against me.

"Please, I beg you, stop reading those horrible things. I swear, I did none of it."

"Look, I hate to admit this," the demon said, leaning in closer, "but God is never, and I do mean never, wrong."

"Then this is His first time," I fumed. "I demand to be let go and returned to my life. I have a future with Heather..."

"You have no future!" the demon bellowed. He slapped the parchment with his hand in exasperation, and then asked, "Did you not wish to be Heather's husband?"

I stared blankly, unable to rationalize a connection between my desire for Heather and the fact that I was standing at the gates of Hell, being read my supposed crimes against God and humanity.

"Well, sport, simply put, God granted you your wish."

I still didn't get it.

"Welcome to Hell, Adolf."

"Huh?" I continued to struggle with my belief that God was wrong. "Adolf? My name is Michael Gabriel Pennymore. I-I was named after two of God's archangels."

"Well, isn't this a small world!" the beast chuckled. "My boss, Lucifer, was one of God's original archangels. What a coincidence!" Again, the minions roared with rageful, mocking laughter.

"I don't belong here. I'm not Adolf!" I screamed – a feat that momentarily silenced the crowd.

The demon glared at me, but didn't lash out again. Instead, the beast sighed and said, "I'm not going to waste any more time on you. Simply put, you wished to be Heather's husband. At the exact moment the bullet left the gun of Adolf's lover, God granted you your wish. You switched bodies with Adolf. You became Adolf. Congratulations, you can now enjoy eternity as Heather's husband." The demon turned to the monster nearest him and said, "Beelzebub, get this guy checked in and hurry him to the psycho ward. He's about to crack."

The demon then turned back toward me and dropped a newspaper at my feet. Numbly, I bent down and picked it up. The headline screamed, "Adolf Scharnhorst Shot Dead by Jilted Lover."

"That's not true," I mumbled. "I saw the whole thing. I was there. She accidentally shot him after I..."

"Oh, do shut up and read on, would you?"

I begrudgingly did. The article described the bizarre events surrounding the shooting, including the fact that not only was Heather's husband dead, but her lover, Henry Philkowitz, the CEO of HammerLink Fencing Company, was arrested for cooking the company's books. The article concluded with a paragraph detailing how Heather's close friend, Michael Gabriel Pennymore, was there to comfort and console her.

Then, a lone article fluttered down from above and landed in my hand. It was a wedding announcement, that of Heather Scharnhorst to Michael Gabriel Pennymore. I gasped and looked at the demon for an explanation.

"You and Adolf switched bodies," he said with a shrug. "Look how happy they are in the photograph. No doubt, Michael Gabriel Pennymore will be a good husband to Heather. Kind of ironic, don't you think? He gets a gentler second chance with his wife, which is what he wished at the fountain this morning... the very same fountain where you wished to be Heather's husband."

To Beelzebub, I heard the demon whisper, "Get ready."

The demon turned back to me and said, "God was generous. He granted both of you your wishes. Isn't that swell of Him? Welcome to your new home, Adolf."

Something hollered, "Look out, boys, he's gonna blow!"

And I did, screaming for all eternity.

*****

If you enjoyed this story you might like to read more of LC Cooper's writing. Such as...

Simmering Consequences

by LC Cooper

Can we repair mistakes? What happens when the relationship between best friends detonates? Some embrace the electric excitement of change, while others retreat inward and dream of reliving the glory days. Rebecca Perkins travels a slippery slope as she winds her way through Ryan and Savannah Meyers' marriage. She'll do anything to keep the friendship alive.

*****

**I live with my wonderful husband,** our great kids, and our bratty cats in our cabin at the base of the smoky mountains. When not writing, I enjoy gardening, reading, vacationing in exotic places, and visiting family and friends. I have degrees in mathematics education and curriculum design, but with the fallout of that lousy system called common core, I prefer to write more than teach. My goal is to publish four novels every year, and I do enjoy writing short stories, so look for a few of those sprinkled in between the Novels. Note that I will always give my short stories away, whereas my Novels will always have a price tag unless there's a freebie promotion.

**Website:** <http://lccooperauthor.weebly.com/>

#  The Night of the Loving Kitty

By Christopher Mitchell

Once, there was a small cabin on a small bluff overlooking a placid lake. A young couple, Martin and Amelia, lived there and they were greatly in love with each other, waking with a kisses and retiring with cuddles. All was good except one thing, no children. Many of the old women in the local village questioned this and Amelia was greatly troubled by the shrews' harsh words. Once, on their way back from the market, she began to ask:

"Martin, we have been married for more than two years and still no child. Could we be barren?"

Martin ever patient slipped his hands around her and kissed the raven curls.

"Dear, Amelia. We may be poor and without child, but I have you and the stars. I will always be content." This satisfied her and she said no more for a long time.

At harvest time, an All Hallows banquet was held in the village. Everyone sang and danced over the bounty and gave thanks for the memories of their ancestors. At the meal, her mother spoke again about the lack of children. It was an embarrassment to her not to have a grandchild. Maybe the Midwyfe could help with a chant or herb poultice. It wouldn't hurt, right?

Amelia was saddened and frustrated by the talk. It was as if it were her fault. Again, she took her frustrations out on her husband. Again, he took her in his arms.

"Wife, care not what others think. I could go through my life childless. But as long as you are at my side and loving me, I will praise the heavens. You are my gift from God and I desire nothing more."

It was obvious he meant every word and she smiled ruefully as they made their way home.

The clouds darkened the sky as they walked on. The rain started just as couple turned into the garden gate. As they ran to avoid the downpour, they saw a small kitten lying on the ground next to the stairs. It looked near death from the cold and wet. Amelia took pity on the creature and brought him inside, tucking the cat into a blanket to warm up.

A hearty stew was prepared, with a bit of meat and sauce saved for their guest. After supper, the rest of the evening was spent cleaning and grooming the cat with an old rag, turning him from muddy brown to dazzling dark silver. The coat was unlike any animal they had ever seen, shining like a star hovering in the sky. A warm feeling came over the couple as the kitten cuddled with them. An empty place in their lives had been filled. Gently placing the sleeping cat on the floor, they retired to bed.

A huge moon rose through the clouds, blue and large over the trees. But it was not the ordinary full moon. It was the Double Orb moon of legend. The reflection on the water's surface gave an eerie glow to the cabin. A single moonbeam came through the window and struck the kitten who soon began to stretch and grow until he was as large as a lion. The little purr became a growl. The couple had taken in William Felix, the Werecat. Rising from the floor, he began to pace the kitchen. The bowl left from dinner was emptied with a quick lick and then he padded quietly down the hall to explore his new lair.

This wasn't his first transformation, but it indeed had been the happiest. In the twenty years since the spell was cast, most people would kick or shoo him away in disgust. Those humans died for their meanness, with him tasting their blood on his whiskers. Pain and misery always delivered to them in kind. With every kill, his legend grew and villages far and wide told the stories of dismemberment.

But this couple was different. The woman especially had shown kindness and mercy, feeding and grooming him. They were to be rewarded for their love.

Stopping at a door, he heard odd sounds coming from behind it. Not screams of terror and pain, but high pitched sighs followed by low moans. The door gave way with a light push of his nose and William Felix entered unnoticed. What he found both shocked and pleased him. They were mating.

The man was still clothed with his head on his wife's breast and she was suckling him like a kitten. Reaching for his shirt, she pulled it over his head, hands softly running along his sides. Soon they were both without covering as they became entwined. The reward was obvious. The silver cat sidled up to the bed, lifted his furry head and growled "Pet the pussy."

Without a thought, Martin reached down between his wife's legs and lightly traced around the heart, feeling the heat and moisture. Amelia arched her back and purred loudly, wanting more. Smiling, he pressed slightly harder, kissing her tenderly. Turning his head slightly to work down her neck, he smelled the damp fur and looked up to see the huge yellow eyes staring back. The headboard hit the wall with a bang as they both backed away from the beast yelling.

"Who or what are you?" Amelia screamed. "Take what you want and don't hurt us. We took you in to our home on good faith and love. Woe upon our fault if we have offended or insulted you."

The silver beast growled softly: "Please don't be frightened. You have passed the test. My name is William Felix and I once was a prince in a far land. My consort was an evil sorceress joined to me by arrangement by my father the King. Jealous was she and I sought the company of others that were more amenable. She walked in on me one day with another woman and turned me into this beast you see, a Werecat.

Most of the time, I am the gentle kitten you found. But, on the Double Orb Moon, such as tonight, I transform. If anyone has mistreated me prior, they are killed horribly on the spot, being torn limb from limb as the harvest to their evil. But, you and your husband showed me mercy and hospitality, so you shall be rewarded. I wish to love you both. So, please, pet the pussy."

And with that, William Felix jumped on bed between the loving couple. Touching noses first with Martin, then Amelia, he kissed them both. Four hands reached up to scratch behind his ears and down the massive neck of the beast. The large, supple tail wrapped gently around Martin and squeezed, sliding up and down the shaft. Martin moaned and massaged large cat's shoulder blades. Purring, they both came closer to Amelia.

As Martin kissed her, the cat kneaded and petted her, leaving large red welts in the massive paw's wake. Nuzzling her raised nipples, she began to sigh and moan. The cold nose explored between her legs. Amelia, her breath coming in short gasps, sat up and reached under the large cat's belly and began to rub.

"Oh, Precious Kitty, please love us forever."

The beast's growl was almost deafening. Guiding the cat into her she cried out. Three souls sharing each other as the storm grew fiercer outside. A silver handled hairbrush was lifted off the night stand to groom the great cat. As the soft bristles touched his back, there was a clap of thunder and all gasped at the sound. The dance became more intense, smooth skin caressed by soft fur. Lightning struck the tree just outside the window as the three ended their session together. Everything then went dark.

Martin came to his senses first. The huge cat was now their kitten, contently asleep under Amelia's breast. The spell had been broken and they were all left spent. Amelia stirred and looked at her husband and kitten in wonder. Smiling, she kissed her husband and the three slept cuddled together until the sun rose over the lake.

The reward came the next spring. Catherine Marie, beautiful with her mother's curls, came and there were no more questions from the others. The cat settled into his new home. He was a worthy mouser and boon companion to Martin as he did his chores.

One morning, Martin came into the bedroom naked after his bath. Amelia was nursing Baby Kitty, as they came to call their daughter, with a dreamy smile on her face. Felix hopped in Mama's lap and nuzzled and groomed his daughter and they purred in unison. Without a word, he ran his hands on all three and realized his final gift. He had his wife, the stars and a beautiful daughter. As he petted the silver cat, their shared prayer of thanksgiving rose above them. All was good.

*****

**I am a former government employee living in Atlanta.** I began writing as a hobby about ten years ago as a reaction to a boring, soul sucking job. I work mostly in short and flash fiction, but my genres are all over the board. I do comedy, satire and police procedurals. My interests other than writing include acting and hiking.

Blog: <http://anothergovernmentemployee.blogspot.com/>

#  Thank You!

We hope you have enjoyed the stories in this anthology and have found a new favorite author (or two – or more!) Please be sure to check out the writers' other work, and, if you enjoyed this collection, even a little, leave a review and share it with your friends and loved ones. Though writer's say they write for themselves, the truth is they write to be read; to entertain. Because what good is a movie if no one watches it? Or a toy, if no one plays with it? Or a book, if no one reads it? So thank you for taking the time to read our stories. We hope you enjoyed them!

-Ink Slingers' League

 https://groups.google.com/forum/#!forum/the-ink-slingers-league

