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The 13: Tales of Macabre

Published by Ayers Creative Concepts

Copyright (C) 2018 by Stephanie Ayers

Cover designed by: Grady Earls

Author photo by: Nancy Balogh, Beautiful Expressions

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For information contact:

Ayers Creative Concepts

860 Rodgers Drive

Springfield, OH 45503

theauthorSAM@gmail.com

Ebook ISBN: 9780463259993

Print ISBN: 9781386998822

First Edition: October 2018

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

# Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Foreward

Introduction

Frequent Flyer Livery Service

Matilda

The Forgetting

Off to Never Neverland

Phoenix Rising

A Bloody Good Meal

A Cry in the Night

The Strangest Thing of All

Mary Jane

The Skeptic

Off with His Head

Send in the Clowns

About the Author

More Books by this Author

Sign up for Stephanie Ayers's Mailing List

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# Dedication

To Shay Stone, Krys Fenner, Megan Grooms, Kelly Williams, Marie Hoping, Rebekah Dodson, Paul and Dana Davis, Jennifer Demeter, and Danica Raimz without whom the abyss would have widened, and I would have fallen in.

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# Foreward

I was first introduced to Stephanie by way of multiple online writing groups a couple of years ago. We've since reviewed each other's work and swapped feedback many times and have worked together on several projects. She is an author with many related talents.

My first real taste of her work as simply a reader was in 2017's The 13: Tales of the Illusory, a precursor to the very book you are about to enjoy. Stephanie's storytelling whisked me away to a circus with cursed puppets, a dark underworld beneath a seemingly innocent pond, the scene of a horrific car accident, and many other terrifying locales that left my heart racing. If, like me, you are drawn to dark stories of unusual things that go bump in the night, then I highly recommend you grab yourself a copy--right after you finish this book, that is. She has been in at least seven other anthologies, too--each of them well worth the read.

Stephanie asked me to write this foreword as I am a multi-genre author that specializes in speculative fiction short stories--a genre which both of her collections squarely fall into. Like her, I've always gravitated to the twisted and weird stories. The kind you would tell your friends as a kid around a campfire or at a sleepover. I have multiple publications in anthologies, in genres such as horror, dark fantasy, science fiction, drama, and creative nonfiction. Many of my stories have won awards. Fans of this book may enjoy my short 'Only the Dead Go Free,' which can be found in the anthology A Haunting of Words, or 'The Snow Bride,' which is part of the anthology Mirrors & Thorns.

Now, think back to the most horrific moment of your life, when the surreal suddenly seemed far more real than it had any right being. We've all experienced something akin to this in one way or another at some point. For me, it could be the one time in my life I saw a UFO as a child, or when a psychotic person that had been stalking me for almost a year from the other side of the country showed up on my doorstep in the middle of the night with luggage--both events I will never forget even the minutest details of. Did your heart feel like it might pound its way out of your chest? Did your scalp tingle? Were you immediately covered in a slick sheen of sweat? Each of those was true for me in both cases. Be prepared to feel that way again, only without any danger.

The 13: Tales of the Macabre maintains the tone and "creep factor" one finds in Illusory. Like that collection, Macabre also contains equally dark and eloquent poetry--this time from the equally twisted mind of Stacy Overby. A vampiric holiday, complete with a satisfyingly sanguine meal and digital tree decorations is sure to make your next holiday season a little more unsettling. An agent of the Afterlife ponders returning a child whose life ended earlier than planned. A deeply disturbing tale about a girl, her music box, and the single most terrifying thing on this planet--clowns. Through each of these tales, you may catch glimpses of your own fears, or perhaps even of yourself.

I really love the imagination put into Stephanie's plots and characters. When an author truly cares about their stories and puts the effort in, those stories shine above the rest, like polished jewels amidst so much ore. To me, the primary goal of any story is to fully transport the reader into the world created by the author. These are always my goals with my shorts, and Stephanie reaches all of them with every single tale. Her many years of writing horror and speculative fiction shorts is evident in the quality of said stories.

Whether you are looking for something to raise the hairs on the back of your neck, keep you awake at night, or make you really think about what you just read for days to come, this collection has what you need. That Most Terrifying Moment of your past may now have some new competition. There is no doubt in my mind that Stephanie had a blast writing these stories. I'm confident that you will feel the same about reading them as I did.

\- JM Ames

Speculative Fiction Author

Expect the Unexpected

(C) September 2018

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# Introduction

Come as you are

and we will all feast

on rich red wine,

food fit for a king,

on thoughts and dreams and memories.

Come as you are

to listen a spell

of tales to be told

and songs to be sung;

of life and death and life thereafter.

Come as you are

and sit for a while

as dreams take flight,

nightmares speak,

and visions invade your mind.

Come as you are

but will you leave

when ghouls arrive,

the dead drop by,

and bid you join their ranks.

Come as you are

for the Dance Macabre

will swirl you up,

spin you around,

and the feast begins again.

(C) 2018 Stacy Overby

Dont Read

Alone

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# Frequent Flyer Livery Service

He watched through the clear glass window of his private room in the center tower. It was the only room in his castle--a large, grey-brick structure with four turrets and the taller tower in the center--with such a large window. It was more than just a window for Count Marcel. It was a two-way looking glass that allowed him to see any place, any time. Scientists later would call it a portal, although that was not a true description, either. At this particular moment, he watched as a carriage moved down the dirt road in the woods beyond his home. His lofty position in the tower and the fact that the window ran around the entire room gave him an eagle's view of the surrounding territory. He almost always knew a visitor was coming long before they arrived.

On this day, however, he was not expecting any guests, and the carriage on the road beyond was not heading his way. It headed for his arch enemy's castle on the other side of the woods. The nostrils of his long beak-like nose curled as he whiffed the air. Female.

His eyes stared into the window until it zoomed in on the carriage. As it crested the hilltop, the sunset struck the traveling carriage and steeped it's occupant in crimson. The woman's soft brunette hair tucked into a large pink hat. Her full bosom burst from her pale, pink frock. She held a small hand mirror in front of her face and smeared paint on her lips. Her beauty was lost on Count Marcel, however, as all he could see was the crimson flooding the carriage. He hurled himself through the window, his black cape winging out behind him as if he were flying. He swooped down into the carriage, scooped up the helpless female, and threw her in front of the carriage. The horses charged before the driver could stop them and trampled the woman to death, filling the path with a shade of crimson such as to rival the sunset.

He smiled from his perch in the tower, pleased with his work. He looked at the cork board hanging on his wall and flicked his index finger through the air. Ghostly fingers scratched a one on the white page tacked to the board, just above the number four. A noise from behind him caused him to turn, and he observed as yet another carriage slogged its way over the mountain behind him. He pulled a small vial filled with red liquid from his pants pocket and set it upright in a pan before redirecting his attention to the new carriage.

He ignored the mountain side, mostly because those who traveled the mountain were too poor, their blood too tainted for his experiments. Something seemed odd about this passage though, and his hawk eyes trained to the carriage until it seemed to be in the room with him. Interesting place for a Prince! he thought as he recognized the carriage occupant. His eyes squinted as the gears in his brain churned. Beyond the mountain was nothing but a barren wasteland. Acting hastily before the carriage breached the bottom of the mountain, he jumped through the glass, his cape fanning out behind him, and free fell straight into the carriage.

"Wha...?" said the startled Prince as the Count landed in the seat across from him.

"Good morning, Sire," Marcel said, making a slight bow from his waist. "I am amused that one such as yourself traveled this dark route. Have you no fear of the haunts that lurk these hills?"

The Prince trembled in his seat. "None would dare face the King's wrath," he said unconvincingly. Marcel laughed and laughed again as he watched the Prince shudder at its sound.

"Those who live in these hills fear nothing, least of all your King." Marcel extended a hand out to the Prince. "I am Count Marcel, owner of the Frequent Flyer Livery Service you should have engaged for your journey. I keep a vigilant eye from my castle there." He pointed out the window as it came in view. "I am here solely to service good folks like yourself who have no business traveling alone through these parts. I have rerouted this drab excuse for wheels the city calls a carriage to my home where we will switch to one of my much finer ones for the duration of your journey. There are none in these hills who dare interfere with my riders. The risk is too great."

As the last word rolled off Marcel's tongue, the carriage approached the castle and a sharp whistle slipped from Marcel's lips. The drawbridge came down. The carriage rolled over the drawbridge with enough speed to jostle the men inside.

"Whoa, that's a rather rough ride," the Prince said. The Count pointed out the window again at a group of wolves running behind the carriage. Only one of them was daring enough to jump the drawbridge and found itself sliced in half as the bridge closed on it.  A satisfied smile crept across the Count's face as it's blood splattered against the castle walls.

"There, see? Already I am protecting you." He stepped out of the carriage and held the door open for the Prince, who stopped just outside the carriage.

"Where is your carriage?"

The Count whistled again, and a horse came from around a corner. A man sat on a bench atop the carriage behind the horse. It was indeed grander than the one the Prince had just emptied. The black paint was shiny and trimmed with gold. The black steed pulling it was young and frisky. Even the driver looked healthy and extravagant in a black suit.

"That will do nicely, Count. What do you require in payment for your services?"

"Blood sacrifice," the Count answered, a sick grin on his face. The Prince startled and cast a glance from the corner of his eye. The Count chuckled, a dry, sinister sound that did not relax the Prince even a little. The smile left Marcel's face. "It is only a small vile. At least, you will live, unlike the others."

The Prince's head turned to take in his surroundings. For the first time he noticed where he was. It was a graveyard of sorts, though perhaps torture chamber described it better. The yard was full of black birds--vulture, crow, raven--all of which were feasting on decaying flesh hanging from gallows, dangling from stocks, and one unlucky soul trapped in an iron maiden. The stench hit him next, and he gagged, which was all the Count needed to slit the Prince's throat from behind. He gathered a vial full and pushed the Prince out of the carriage before whistling the drawbridge down and letting the pack of wolves in.

They gathered around the Count like beloved pets, whining and scrambling over each other, hoping for a pat from the master's hand.

"Well done, my puppies, well done." He led them to the not-quite-dead Prince. They danced in anticipation, growls of delight leaving their throats. He eyed the Prince slowly, carefully. A full-mouthed grin crossed his face as terror froze on the Prince's as the hungry wolves swarmed in.

Count Marcel watched from the tower as the wolves devoured their meal, a feeling of warm satisfaction filling his cold heart. Another ghostly finger left a scratch on the board as he set the vial in the box next to the first.

Two, he thought, and it's not even lunchtime!

The Count walked over to a corner of the room, the only part not encased in glass, and clapped. A panel in the wall slid open, and he stepped into the darkness beyond. A light turned on in the center of the room above a hospital bed. Shadows along the wall became clearer the closer he moved to the light. Medical equipment used to sustain life lurked there, the various wires running to and from the bed.

"Perhaps, my darling, I will finally have enough blood to give you a transfusion." He stepped to the edge of the bed and pulled the sheet down. Fine white hair spilled across the pillow. Beneath the hair lay a shriveled face. Only its lips held youth. Marcel closed his eyes and kissed those lips as his hand reached up and stroked her hair.

He exhaled, the pain of his loss forcing it out. He did a quick check of her vitals. A frown creased his forehead. She was getting weaker. A volley of tears slid down his face. He could not stop crying and rage replaced his sadness. He threw the sheet over her face and stormed out of the room, the whisper of the wall panel filling the silence behind him.

Marcel's eyes fell on the board again. The remaining two numbers glared at him though they were invisible. His heart sunk as he realized it would not be enough. He needed over four today, and perhaps tomorrow too, if he ever wanted to bring Nicolette from the verge of death. He needed whole armies and the only two he knew of were untouchable. One belonged to the King, and the other belonged to Count Cristo, his enemy just beyond the woods. The King's army was too far and already engaged in war. Cristo's army, though close, knew too much about Marcel to fall into one of his traps. Besides, the armies travelled in numbers, making things much more difficult. He was not willing to die, not yet. He must revive Nicolette first, then he would die a happy man. A scuffle to the east distracted him from his thoughts and he turned to look out the glass. At first, all he could see was dust swirling through the air, so he zoomed in. Three men in the prime of their youth fought each other, their swords swinging and missing most of the time. When first blood flew, the men settled down, hovering together to bandage the gushing wound. Marcel smiled as he swooped through the window, falling eastward. He landed softly on his feet to the astonishment of the men.

"Eh? Where'd ya come from?" The tallest man said. His green eyes held fire underneath a mop of cherry curls. A cold breeze passed through and they shivered.

Count Marcel pointed westward. Six eyes followed his finger and soaked in the view of the castle towering in the distance. "There," he said. "I am Count Marcel. I oversee this region and noticed one of you is hurt. Please, allow me to offer the warmth of my home and my doctoral services to tend to his wound." He stepped closer, a clever mask of concern on his face. The young blood would be very refreshing to his dead bride. The wounded man stepped back, resistant to the Count's touch.

"Stay back!" the man shouted. "I'll not be another victim today, thank you."

His two friends looked at him with gaping jaws.

"Excuse my rude friend, Count. Anton let his manners go when his blood flowed," the third man said, his short jet-black hair standing on end, the paths his fingers ran through it clear. Blood decorated his chin and stained the front of his shirt. "I fear Anton won't make it to your castle, however kind your offer is. Are you not prepared to help us here, now?"

The count whistled, and a shiny, black carriage came bouncing into sight. The road it came on was less travelled. "My Frequent Flyer Livery Service will have you at the castle in no time. It is truly the fastest carriage on the known lands. Please, gentlemen," the count held his arms out as if to lead them to the carriage. Six eyes rounded though their lips remained tight. A grimace of pain from Anton, and the men moved in unison to the waiting carriage.

Once seated on blood-red leather, Anton groaned. "I've heard of you and your castle. People who go there never return."

Count Marcel scoffed. "Pshaw. That is only a nasty rumor. Plenty of people have come and gone from my castle! It is usually under the cover of night, however, so I could see how the rumors come about."

The wounded man looked doubtful. "Why do you let these rumors fly about then?"

"It keeps the troublemakers away, and I can live in peace. I am not some tourist stop nor do I ever desire to be."

"Humph. When you set us free we will believe," Anton countered.

"As you wish," the count answered. The trivial banter from the men did not affect him. Marcel knew what his purpose was. He had never taken three at once, though, and these were strong looking men. He would have to be careful in working his plan to not give it away. Perhaps, instead of taking a single vial and killing them, he should drain them of all their blood instead. They had youth on their side. Youth was something Nicolette needed. Their blood could be the key to bringing her back to life the way she was when she lost it.

Lost it, the count thought. She never should have died. It was me the people wanted, but they took her instead.

That was the day the blood shed officially started. It had started before that, but that blood, spilled in the field beyond his castle, was not her doing. The people refused to believe him. The princess was too beloved. Someone had to pay for her slaughter. They infiltrated Marcel's castle and caught Nicolette tossing herbs in her cauldron. They accused her of witchcraft and claimed her dark arts slew the princess out of jealousy. It was rubbish, all of it, but the people did not listen. They did not care that the herbs were only spices to flavor the meat being cured in the pot. They cared not that the silent mutterings on her lips were prayers to God. They saw her dancing and screamed, "Witch!" She was innocent, yet it made no difference. They only knew she lived in the mysterious castle on the property where the murder had taken place, thus she paid for crimes she did not commit. They hanged her and left her for the crows, the ravens, and the vultures. Marcel had been away, fighting a battle with the other knights of the kingdom. By the time he had returned, the birds had destroyed most of her features, and, for Marcel, the entire world turned scarlet and stayed that way.

The carriage arrived at the castle within moments. It truly was the fastest in the land as far as it concerned Marcel. The astonished looks on the men's faces confirmed his belief.

"Amazing!" said the tallest man again. The other two nodded their heads in agreement. The carriage had stopped in front of the main door and Marcel led the men into the castle. He made a mental note to clean up the yard as he realized that if any of these men caught sight of it, the game would end. That would not do. It would not do at all.

He led the men into a great room filled with suits of armor. The banners of every King that had ever reigned the kingdom hung from the walls like flags. The glow from the fire pit on the south wall gave the room a cozy atmosphere. Marcel sighed in relief as he saw the men relax. He pointed to the couch facing the fire pit. All three men moved to sit on it, but Marcel stopped Anton.

"You, sir, must follow me. There will be no bleeding on my furniture, thank you." Marcel bowed slightly in mockery before leading Anton out of the room.

He led him up a spiral staircase, their shoes clanging on the black iron steps. It was a beautiful staircase; one Marcel admired each time he used it. Its silky, rich mahogany rail contrasted with the black iron posts, and the elegant floral pattern of the steps added character. It wound to the uppermost floor, but they would not be going that far today. They only needed to get to the tower. The climb was otherwise bland with nothing but the grey concrete walls to view as they ascended. When they reached the proper floor, Marcel shoved Anton roughly, pushing him along impatiently.

"Hey now. You best watch yourself!" Anton said. Marcel grabbed Anton's elbow and squeezed his wound.

"You are a guest in my home, sir. As such, I advise you to watch yourself. I could have left you to bleed to death out there in the field, hmm?" Steel cut into the count's voice. He released his hold on Anton when he finished speaking. Anton hissed in pain, words ready on his lips, but held them at bay. "Come now, it is not far."

Anton paused as the broad expanse of glass came into view. His lower jaw fell in appreciation. He wandered over to the window, letting his guard down as he went.

"This is an incredible view!" he said. "Why, you can see for miles from up here! It's like being in heaven!" Anton stepped even closer to the window, pressing himself against it as he peered out. Marcel resisted the temptation to push him. He needed the man too much. Besides, no one knew the secret the window held, and now was not the time to reveal it. Instead, he touched his shoulder gently, and pointed to the opening in the wall nearby.

"Please, Anton, your wound needs treatment which I provide in this room."

Once they passed into the room, the panel slid shut with a soft swoosh behind them. Darkness filled the room and the sounds of a scuffle burst the silence. When the count clapped his hands and the light came on, he had strapped Anton into a chair, and a tube filled with a red liquid ran from his wounded arm to the figure on the bed. The count closed his eyes to shut out the sight of the crimson line. It would not do to ravage this man. Nicolette was too weak. She needed all this man's blood, and the blood of his companions, too.

Anton used the last of his strength to spit at Marcel. "You are a fool. You think my friends downstairs will sit through this?" He laughed. "No! They will have your head on the end of their spears when they discover what you have done! You will be forever watching your back, Count!"

The Count tipped his head back and laughed. "You are a funny one. As long as you and your friends are in my castle, there is nothing you can do. I am the Master. Only I decide who lives and dies within its walls." Marcel moved closer to the bed until he stood beside it. He glanced at Anton, whose only threat at this point was his eyes, and dismissed him. He pulled the sheet down gently and caressed the hair that spilled all over the pillow. "Is that not correct, Nicolette, dear?"

He smiled softly as his hand stroked her smooth cheek. Signs of the effectiveness of the youth's blood showed. The ravaged skin on her face had healed. "Oh, my beauty," he sighed. He wanted to curl up beside her, but she was still too cold. He glanced at Anton again. Anton slumped over in his chair. Only his restraints kept him upright. Marcel walked over to him, bent down on one knee and investigated Anton's face. His eyes remained open and his nostrils twitched. He was not dead yet. Marcel lifted Anton's hair off his forehead.

"You are quiet. What is wrong? You finally have nothing to say?" Ice filled the count's laughter, and he released Anton's hair. "Weakling!"

Anton's lips moved slowly, though Marcel heard no sound.

"What was that? Did you say something?"

Anton's lips moved again. "....ward."

The count's eyebrows knit together. "Come again?"

"COWARD!" Anton said, a last spark of life loaning him enough adrenaline to shout. "You're the coward, Count. This is the coward's way out."

Marcel rose from his knee and towered over Anton. He flipped Anton's head backwards hard enough he saw Anton's eyeballs roll from the force. "I should kill you now."

Anton looked him in the eye. Marcel could see the last of Anton's strength ebbing away within them.

"Do it," Anton said.

Marcel rose his fist high in the air, but before he brought it down, he caught sight of Nicolette's face. Rosebuds colored her cheeks. He closed his eyes tight and squeezed his fists in frustration. No, he could not kill Anton. He would have to suffer the arrogant bastard until his blood ran dry. Nicolette needed it too much. Once he had expired, Marcel could do whatever he wanted to with him.

He backed away and slipped out of the room. He grabbed the two vials of blood from their box and reentered the room. He attached them crudely to the line running from Anton's arm and watched as they slowly emptied. Nicolette's pallid cast faded, her natural peach coloring took its place. Her skin had grown back where it was missing before. Marcel's heart took a leap. She would be strong soon.

"Hello?" A voice called from the stairwell. Anton rustled in his seat and Marcel jumped. He had hoped to buy more time before dealing with Anton's comrades. Marcel rushed from the room, only stopping once he reached the stairs.

"I trust you are comfortable? Are you being well-tended to?" A plastic smile engraved itself on the count's face.

"Yes, thank you. We came to check on Anton, but you have so many rooms in the castle, we didn't know where to go. It's a little overwhelming. We decided to just follow the staircase."

Marcel realized he held his breath and released it with a quick sigh. "Anton, yes. I am afraid I had trouble suturing the wound. He is resting from the impromptu surgery, so I regret that I can only allow one visitor at a time." He smiled reassuringly at the men. They looked at each other, words passing silently between them. The taller one spoke, "I am his cousin, so I will go first. Pierce would be more comfortable waiting nearby, however. Can that be arranged?"

"But of course," Marcel agreed.

He led them away from the tower and into the corridor just beyond. He pulled a large, round iron key chain from his belt and shifted the ancient keys until he came to the twelfth one and slid it into the lock. The knob turned easily, and he led the men into the room. A double clap of his palms and lights came on all around the room. Decorated in rich scarlet satin and deep plum velvets, the oversized pockets of the couch and chairs within it welcomed them with open arms. On the farthest wall hung a portrait of a beautiful woman. A halo of field flowers crowned a head full of long golden curls. A simple white dress trimmed in gold covered a slim figure. One hand held a bouquet of wildflowers, and her bare feet walked along the shoreline as the ocean lapped at her toes. Both men stopped in their tracks and stared at the painting.

"Such beauty," Pierce said in a whisper so quiet he was barely heard. "Who is she?"

A tear forced its way over the dam of Marcel's eyelid. "My Nicolette, " he said, his voice holding as much awe as Pierce's did.

"Nicolette..." the taller man said. Neither pressed Marcel for answers. Marcel shook his head, breaking the spell Nicolette cast on everyone who entered this room.

"I must beg your pardon, gentlemen. Please allow me to check on Anton. It would not bode well for anyone if he had a setback. I shall return momentarily."

Marcel did not wait for the men to answer. Instead, he stepped out the door and lingered only long enough to lock them in the room. It would not do to have them roam the castle even though there was nothing within its inner walls that would frighten them. Ever since the people had broken in and accosted Nicolette, he had a high regard for his privacy. Besides, he could not risk them accidentally stumbling into the hidden room together. He believed he could take them both, but that would cause too much bloodshed. After seeing the results of Anton's forced transfusion, he knew he needed every drop he could get.

A pleasant surprise waited for Marcel behind the sliding panel. Anton had finally expired, and Nicolette's color had returned completely. He unhooked Anton and freed him from his restraints. He carried him to the empty cot resting along the far wall and laid him on it, taking care to cover him with a blanket. He caressed Nicolette gently, sending loving apologies for the need to hide her, and turned the light off over her bed, leaving only the light nearest Anton on.

When things seemed satisfactory, he left the medical room again and unlocked the door to the portrait room. He found both men still standing in front of the portrait with their mouths hanging open. It was a most disgraceful sight for Marcel though it also made him happy. Their stunned composure made his job easier for him. His concern involved moving quickly. He had two strong and healthy males to contend with. So far, fortune had favored him, but he did not know how long that would continue. He walked up to Anton's cousin and tapped him on the shoulder.

"He is ready to see you now," Marcel said. The man's attention jerked from the portrait. It seemed as if he did not remember where he was. Marcel chuckled. Perhaps this would be easier than he thought. It had been quite a while since Nicolette had an audience other than the Count himself. He enjoyed the look of shock that took over the man's countenance when he recovered his bearings.

"Anton?" He asked.

"Yes, follow me please," Marcel said. The man obliged, following him from the room. He even waited as Marcel locked the door behind them, not even questioning why it was necessary. This surprised Marcel as he had readied an explanation. He set it aside and decided not to stress over it. Fate was still on his side.

Just as it had Anton, the room wide window intrigued the man. He stepped closer to the window with trepidation and seemed relieved when Marcel called him away from it. He entered through the panel willingly and sauntered over to Anton's bedside.

"He's so pale!" The man's voice bounced off the walls and ended in the center of the room. He reached out a meaty hand and touched Anton's cheek. "He's so cold!"

"Yes," Marcel agreed. "He lost a lot of blood. Perhaps some of yours would help revive him?"

The man looked at him skeptically. An eyebrow raised over one eye. Fear darkened his complexion. "How would I do that? I'm not interested in maiming myself, though Anton be of my blood."

The count laughed out loud. "Maiming yourself? Haha. No, I would not ask you to do that. I would, however, swear you to secrecy about the process though. It is unknown to this age."

Curiosity replaced the fear on the man's face. "I swear it. If I can help Anton without hurting myself or dealing with leeches, I'd be happy to do so."

Yes! It is so much easier when they go along! Marcel pulled a chair from a darkened corner and placed it near Anton's bedside. It was close enough to Nicolette to run the line to her bed without alerting the man.

"First, I must ask you to sit here." The man complied. "Now, please lift your sleeve and make a fist." Again, the man complied. Marcel produced a small syringe and showed it to the man. "I will stick this in your arm for a moment. It will insert a small cylinder into your vein. Then, I will attach this tube to the cylinder. It is from this cylinder that the blood will run from your veins into his." Marcel lifted Anton's arm and showed the man the same connection there. "I must warn you that it will hurt for a moment, but you must remain still." At this the man visibly trembled. Marcel smiled slightly. He found it curious that the man asked no questions. He paused. "Tell me, why are you willing to give up your blood for this man?"

"He saved me."

Marcel busied himself with beginning the transfusion and let the man talk.

"It was on the battlefield. We were fighting some stupid war that never should have started in the first place. We'd been fighting for three days straight. It was rough, and Mother Nature had been unkind, dumping a foot of snow on us overnight. It wore us out. Orders shouted from every direction created a state of confusion. Soldiers who were ordered to retreat footed their way to the front lines. The archers fell back and shot their arrows, striking their own soldiers as they advanced. Chaos ensued, and the enemy took advantage. Anton, Pierce, and I hovered in a trench doing our best to hold our position. We'd heard no orders to retreat, though we watched the surrounding men fall back. When no one came to replace them, we wondered if we were the only ones left. I, like the fool that I am, stood up to get a better view. I turned around, faced the south, and rejoiced when my eyes caught sight of more of our army. I lifted my voice to tell Anton when I heard a clang of metal behind me.

Anton shouted my name. I turned, too late.

'Ooph,' Anton said as he fell, the blood staining his chain mail red. What would have been a mortal blow for me almost killed him. Pierce stabbed the man from behind. I fell to my knees besides Anton and did whatever I had to for him to be safe and to live. I owe him my life. Even if I'm not ready to die, I would do so for him gladly."

Marcel grunted. Dimitri's response was not what he had expected. He remembered that battle well. It was the battle he had been called away to fight when the people slaughtered Nicolette. All involved were heralded heroes after news of the betrayal had spread. Sadness filled Marcel. A feisty Anton had been easier to deal with as was the pompous prince. This man did not deserve this. His mind visited the corkboard in the room behind, mentally visualizing the numbers. He could see the three there and the four below it. Perhaps he could spare this man and his friend.

Marcel worked quickly while Dimitri talked and attached the tube to Nicolette's unnoticed. Delighted that she had regained her color, he thought he saw signs of life beneath her eyelids already.

Yes! he thought. Perhaps I can end this sooner and with less death than expected.

"Why I have not considered this before now, I do not know," the count said.

"Thought of what?" the man asked. Already, he looked weak.

The count startled, not realizing he had spoken aloud. "Oh, nothing. My thoughts were running away from me that is all." Color drained from the man's face and he fell to the floor. Marcel rushed to his side and, in a panic, checked his vitals. What if he were wrong, and this man was not as healthy as he appeared to be? Would his freshly dead blood be as healing as live warm blood? He exhaled in relief as the man's heart rate increased and his color returned. The man's eyes fluttered open. Once again, he seemed dazed. Marcel gave him a moment to familiarize himself with his surroundings again. The man's eyes fell on Nicolette lying on the bed and widened.

His voice shattered the stillness. "It's her! The woman from the portrait!"

"Yes, it is. Sadly, she has also fallen ill. I care for her daily. It is all I can do to keep her alive." Marcel's eyes devoured the still body on the gurney hungrily. Did he just see an eye flutter? He inhaled to hide his excitement. Any minute now, he knew she would wake. He looked at Dimitri again. He had slumped over in the chair. The transfusion needed to end now, or he would die. Marcel bent over and whispered in his ear. "I'm sorry. I wanted to spare you."

The man's eyes widened as Marcel opened the IV drip so it flowed faster. She was so close to waking, he grew impatient. The plot to get Pierce in here formed in his mind. A soft gasp distracted him. At first, he thought it came from the man, but a quick glance at the ashen face in front of him made him doubt. The light fading from the man's eyes captivated Marcel and saddened him at the same time. This remorse made no sense to him. Was this man so different from the others? No. Most of them had not deserved to die, either. He had not cared then. He refused to start now. He allowed himself a small comfort in knowing he had given the man a swift death.

Another quiet gasp drew Marcel from his brooding. He watched Dimitri's chest rise and fall for the last time. As he prepared the body so Pierce would not see it, he heard another soft gasp. Impossible. The man is dead. Marcel studied Dimitri's face for a moment.

"Yes, this man is dead," he said aloud, as if he had to convince himself despite the proof in front of him. The tube ran dry. Excitement grew as he realized it could only be Nicolette. Marcel turned slowly around the room. Trepidation overwhelmed him. He had pined for this for so many years, the longing had become a part of him. He closed his eyes and drew in a long breath until he could hold it no more and exhaled in a burst. Nicolette lay still on the bed just as she always had; only her change in complexion was different. A tear breached his eyelashes and splattered on his cheek. He rushed to her side, Dimitri and Pierce momentarily forgotten.

"Oh, my love, my love!" His hands cupped hers, and he laid his head on her chest. He lifted her hand to his cheek, expecting the cold touch of death, but it was warm. A smile crept across his face and hope crested from his soul. "Yes, yes my beloved! Yes!" He rose with determination and tucked Dimitri out of sight before heading for the room where Pierce waited.

Marcel expected Pierce to rush him when he opened the door, but the man still stood there mesmerized by Nicolette's painting. It surprised him, but then he had had no visitors in this room since before she died. Of course, she would have the same hold on other men as she had on him!

He tapped Pierce on the shoulder gently. "Are you ready to see your friend now?"

"Oh, um..." Reluctance made Pierce turn slowly. His eyes widened as reality awakened him. Suspicion clouded his face. "Have I been under a spell?"

Marcel chuckled. He's too smart for his own good. "Not to my knowledge, although my wife's beauty tends to draw men in. I have been the fool many times for her. Would you like to see Anton now?" Marcel led the man away from the painting. His hands wrapped around thick muscles. Pierce was definitely a healthy human. He hid the smile that had wrapped around his face as Pierce followed him through the door.

"How is Anton? You said he had to have surgery?" His blue eyes rolled around the small dark room. "Where is Dimitri and why does Anton look so pale?"

"Dimitri had to leave but said for you to stay and help Anton however you can."

Pierce's eyebrows lifted. "He had to leave? What? But..."

"Yes, I noticed a scuffle from my window there," Marcel lied. "Someone tried to infiltrate your king's domain, and Dimitri ran off to assist."

"Strange. Usually that's Anton's job."

Marcel pointed to Anton. His skin had taken on the paleness of death. He hoped Pierce did not notice. "Well, Anton is kind of busy healing--or trying to, anyway. Dimitri was about to donate some blood to help Anton. He said for you to start and he'll take over when he returns."

A soft moan filled the air. Pierce paled. "I don't like leeches. And where did that moan come from?"

"Anton of course. He needs blood desperately. Leeching takes too long. I have a different system. It won't hurt at all." As if he needed to prove it, Marcel held out the small needle and the tube. He jiggled it so Pierce saw how it fed into Anton's arm.

Pierce's complexion turned a soft shade of green. "The sight of blood has always been the hardest thing for me. Even before you came down to rescue us, I had problems. It was why I didn't help much to begin with."

Marcel laughed. "Yes, I can see how knighthood could be affected if you are squeamish." He patted Pierce's arm and smiled, pleased once more with how healthy this young man appeared to be. He would have to drain him quickly. "You don't have to watch if you'd prefer not to. It's only a small pinch as I insert the tube, and then you'll feel nothing."

Pierce's eyes widened again. Fear squeezed his lips and his nose. "How do you know? What if I can feel the blood flowing from my body?" He shivered. "What if it hurts more than you say? How can I avoid seeing the blood as it runs from my veins to his?"

Marcel patted the chair next to Anton's gurney. "Sit. It has already begun." He pointed to the tube leading out of Pierce's forearm. "See? Already your blood is helping."

Pierce choked and turned his head away. Marcel wondered what he looked at since there was nothing on the walls. His eyes penetrated the darkness looking for some sign of Dimitri or Nicolette but saw nothing. Pleased, he bent back over Pierce's line and opened it up all the way. Blood poured into the tube, a crimson prisoner running for its freedom.

Another gasp filled the air, stronger this time. Marcel wanted to run to her side but dared not to. Not yet. I must wait just a little longer. Pierce did not fade as quickly as Dimitri had. Impatience brewed within Marcel. He could easily kill him now, but then a good portion of his blood would be lost. He wanted every drop for Nicolette. He would have to wait. It was impossible for Pierce to have more blood in his body than any other human. Unless he isn't human.

Marcel shook off that thought. Nothing indicated the man was immortal or anything other than human. Yet, he still sat there looking sickly, but strong. Nicolette's groans grew in volume and frequency. Eventually, Pierce would figure it out. A sigh escaped Marcel's lips as Pierce shut his eyes and let his body slump. His head rolled forward, his chin rested against his chest. Finally!

Marcel rushed to Nicolette's bedside. Her skin glowed like a newborn's, shiny and innocent. Small apples filled her cheeks, and her eyelashes fluttered and opened. Her crystal blue eyes stared at the ceiling for a minute before settling on his face. A smile cracked her plump lips. Her hand lifted on its own and stroked his cheek.

"My love! My dearest! You've come back!"

Nicolette smiled and stroked his other cheek. Laughter replaced the soft groan as she rose. She wrapped her arms around Marcel, who embraced her in return. He cupped her face in his hands and leaned forward for a kiss. His lips moved to her ears and down her neck. He breathed deeply, inhaling as much of her essence as he could. He was so wrapped up in Nicolette, he had forgotten about the other man in the room. As he traced and outlined every nuance of her skin, a shadow rose behind him. As his lips lingered over her bare shoulders, her arms reached out, bidding the shadow closer.

"What are you doing?" Marcel shrieked as Pierce's hands closed around his chest and lifted him up. The blankets covering Nicolette fell as she stood from the bed. Her breasts quivered as she removed her IV. Marcel's eyes drank in her body. It had been too long. Even when Pierce's fingers closed around Marcel's neck, his eyes refused to leave her body.

"What are you doing?" Marcel struggled against Pierce. The man was too strong for having his blood drained as he had.

Nicolette moved closer, stepping between the two men. Her lips moved in silence, her fingers caressing Pierce's face. He too drank in her nakedness. His grip relaxed from Marcel's neck as he looked into her eyes, and his hands reached for Nicolette instead. He cupped her breast in one hand, then slid his free arm around her waist and pulled her toward him. Marcel tried to intervene, but Nicolette held her arm against his abdomen and stopped him. As Pierce caressed her lips with his own, she reached up and gouged his eyes with her long nails. Blood spilled down his face, yet Pierce still reached for her, his body begging for release. Nicolette laughed as she turned to Marcel and pressed herself into him. Pierce tore off his clothes and moved towards them faster than Marcel expected. He grabbed the scalpel from the tray beside her bed and shoved it into the meat of Marcel's belly. One swift upward jerk and Marcel fell to the floor, his stomach flayed open, his blood staining the floor. He watched with helpless eyes as Nicolette seduced Pierce, her hands touching his intimate places, her tongue gliding across his flesh. She laughed as she mounted him and shredded him with every thrust of her hips.

~*~

"OH, MY DARLING," NICOLETTE leaned over Marcel's pallid face as she slid the tube into his arm. "My darling, 'tis such a shame after all you did for me."

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# Matilda

Her name was Matilda, and she wasn't supposed to be there. The coast guard found her floating in the ocean, a smile frozen on her sun-drenched face. I stood on the pier doing weather readings when they brought her body to the shore, her arms and legs hanging firm from the rigor mortis that set in. Little bits of her flesh had been nibbled away from the tips of her fingers and the bottoms of her feet, but she was otherwise preserved. That was probably more related to the fact that she'd been missing less than two days rather than anything else. The big question on everyone's mind was how she got there.

Matilda didn't like the ocean. She was the only one on this small island who never came near it. For everyone else it was a regular after school activity. Everywhere you looked, you'd find volleyball games in the sand, sand castle contests, nearly naked bodies getting their tan on, and surfers competing for the big one.

But Matilda?

Matilda was content to hang out on her patio, facing the busy street, as far inland as possible. Can't say I blame her after the way she lost her daddy at sea on a fishing expedition and her momma just wasted away after he passed. The locals took pity on her and forever after, you'd find her at one house or another, but never the ocean.

The locals speculated that it was because she heard the whispers. There's an old island legend about one born every hundred years who heard the whisper of the waves. The last sea whisperer was named Matilda, too. In fact, old Matilda passed away around the same time new Matilda's parents arrived on the island.

Coincidence? You decide.

According to legend, two whisperers can't coexist, and there must always be one. To have no living whisperer would be the end of our island. The whisperer is the only one who can tame the sea. She is the only one who can calm the hurricanes and typhoons that threaten us. Unless there's another whisperer no one knows about, ours just died, and we aren't due for another one for at least 88 years.

I know you'll think I'm crazy since I only get the weather right sometimes, but there's a mighty storm brewing in the west. This storm will be of a viciousness the likes of which we've never seen in our lifetimes. Not even the storm that took Matilda's daddy was this severe. I'm telling you now. Believe me or not, it's the beginning of the end, just as the legend foretold. Without a Matilda to quiet the sea, we are doomed.

In the two days since Matilda passed, they have evacuated those who lived on the shore. Since most folks live along the shoreline, the courthouse is crowded. Even the sheriff holed up with the rest of us. You know what happens when a bunch of people get together? The hens start pecking and the rumors swirl.

This was no exception.

Since no one on the island would harm a hair on Matilda's head, the blame fell on the tourists. We never held much trust for tourists, anyway. They were only necessary to keep the island going. If we found other resources to keep the money rolling in, we'd keep them out altogether. So, yes, we blamed the tourists for Matilda, and because of that fact alone, we blamed them for the storm, too.

Only one family of tourists hung around the courthouse, much to their downfall. They should have grabbed the ferry like the rest of their kind and gotten off the island completely. If the ocean really took the whisperer, we've done something unforgivable, and there'd be hell to pay. I pitied them. They were ill-prepared to weather the storm and the locals? Well, they weren't of a mind to share.

When the electricity conked out, there weren't enough blankets, so the tourists went without warmth. When the main water supply ran out and they passed bottled water around, they skipped them then, too. After a couple days, only the crying reminded us they remained and eventually even that stopped. When their daughter died, the storm shifted, like the sacrifice had appeased Father Sea. As if the scales of good and evil were once again balanced. We never cared for tourists, but now we'd welcome them with open arms.

Her name was Matilda, and she wasn't supposed to be there. And by being there, she turned our entire world inside out.

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# The Forgetting

For a full year, Cooper Hillard grew watermelons. He cultivated crop after crop, talked to them, and stored them in the old barn. His harvests were the best the old farm on the edge of the village had ever produced in the six generations that had lived there. There had been corn, beans, wheat, but none of those crops ever amounted to anything. The only thing that ever grew with any success was watermelon. It surprised everyone, considering Cooper had a screw or two loose upstairs. How a dummy like him could produce such a product eluded them. These watermelons were so good, people traveled from miles away just to get one.

In hindsight, the people should have known better. Bullied by the other children, Cooper became a recluse. Dolls without heads and broken toy bits scattered his yard. A trip to the store with his mother was the only time anyone saw him. Whispers swirled and fear of what they didn't understand grew. No one visited the farm unless they had to, so eventually they forgot their fear. The year decapitated stray cats replaced the headless dolls and broken toys around his farm should have been a reminder, but it wasn't. Not even when his parents mysteriously passed away shortly after his first watermelon bulged on the vine. Someone had cleaned the yard up, and the people forgot. Besides, since the watermelon he grew was the sweetest anyone had ever tasted, the forgetting came easy. The demise of the village should have been more difficult. Someone should have caught on when they passed the empty houses along the interstate; the unkempt fields overgrown with produce left unharvested. But they didn't, and the village grew because the watermelon grew so well, and no one ever left. It was forbidden. Perhaps that was the village elders' biggest mistake--not in the forgetting, but in the forbidding.

The village began as a small group of people who wanted freedom away from the sins of the world and the devastating losses thereof. Townsfolk sequestered themselves from the modern world, outlawing all modern technology, choosing instead to live off the land like the olden days. The people multiplied amongst themselves, dividing land in their own courts based on lineage. They taught the Good Book and followed the Golden Rule. However, nothing in their teaching, in their belief system, or in their faith, prepared them for what was to come.

When the first watermelon showed up on Katherine Hillis' front porch, no one thought anything since Cooper lived next door. The village chalked it up to his being neighborly and left it at that. When Katherine Hillis passed away less than a week later, no one thought anything of that either, since no one knew how old she was, anyway. Then, a watermelon showed up on another doorstep, only for a death to follow within a week. All the deaths seemed like accidents--Matthew Culver fell from a ladder while painting his house, skewered himself on the fence, and bled out before his wife returned home from Bible study. Katrina Ambry died in childbirth while her watermelon still sat on her porch. John Astrid, the village shopkeeper, swallowed a needle, the internal bleeding causing his demise. So random were these deaths, no one associated them with the watermelons. They just cut them up and shared them at the funerals, which suddenly happened a lot more often than usual. None the wiser, the people saved their seeds and planted, hoping for their own sweet watermelon to grow.

A watermelon commission began, and the villagers scattered the various chores among themselves. The families of the northern sector--the Williams, the Everdeens, and the Phillips'--gathered the seeds. The families of the western sector--the Parrishs, the Whites, and the Johnsons--dispersed them, careful to ensure equality among all the villagers. The families of the south--the Wrights, the Jacksons, and the Hillis'--tilled the lands, loaning their own sweat and blood to the other sectors until all the farms were ready. Finally then, the Eastern families, those who had settled in most recently, came and planted the seeds until each farm had the beginnings of their own watermelon crop. This pleased the people. They left gifts of fresh bread, newly crocheted blankets, and offers of help on Cooper's porch as thanks.

One sunny morning, Jimmy Anders, an Easterner, received a watermelon. It was the biggest his family had ever seen, and they'd delighted in it, making quite an affair of the gift. They packed a picnic, invited neighbors, and headed for the river that ran through their farm. His four children and their friends laughed as juices dripped from their chins. They turned the rinds into weapons, doing battle with each other, and challenged each other to seed spitting contests. During their festivities, the youngest child, Zethro, swallowed a seed and fell into convulsions. When the village doctor couldn't save him, that's when the remembering came, and the fear began anew.

Those who remembered Cooper's violent days packed their homes, abandoned their crops, and headed for the woods. When no one heard from them again, a new fear gripped the hearts of the remaining villagers. Secluded for so long, they'd forgotten there was life beyond the trees. As more death crept over the village, they attributed the disappearance of the families to a devil roaming the woods, the same devil that decapitated stray cats, left poisonous watermelons on front porches, and stole life away in the darkness of the night.

If you happened upon that village today, you would find unattended, rotting watermelons growing on every property. The homes are all abandoned, their doors locked, and the shutters closed. Weeds grew thick and choked the tall grass. Wild watermelon vines wrapped around the tree trunks, lending a sinister appearance, and sending chills through even the hardest soul. If you stay long enough, you might even glimpse old Cooper, thin and frail, his hair gray, setting one more watermelon on a dilapidated porch, before shuffling off into the strange mist that refuses to leave, no matter what the season.

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# Off to Never Neverland

Darkness surrounds me making my outstretched hand a mere outline. Stench rises from every direction: someone's trash left to rot too long. I do not know why I am here, how I got here, or when I arrived. I simply exist.

Heels clicking against the pavement behind me disturbs the silence. It is a welcome sound, even as the hairs on my arms rise. My stomach roils. The palms of my hands moisten with sweat. Small beads of perspiration speckle my forehead. I tremble as the heels echo less as they approach. Decomposition overpowers the trash. My dinner finds its way to my throat.

This is how I always imagined Death would smell. I've only been running from it since toddlerhood, when Death gripped my heart with his sickle and refused to let go. Eight surgeries later, Death still haunts me. My heart is not my own.

"Why do you stalk me?" I turn and face the presence behind me. It is not Death, yet the decay still floats towards me. This person must wrestle with Death or be newly deceased. Those are the only souls I ever meet in this Never Neverland. This ever-engulfing flicker of non-life I visit day upon day.

"It is not I that stalks you. It is you who stalks us." A chill bleeds through me, down to the marrow of my bones. The transparency of the voice echoes from every side until it rests in the abyss of my sternum.

"I have no reason to stalk the dead. I am alive." Heat floods my cheeks as I stumble over my words. "I am alive!"

Voices join in the laughter of the soul in front of me, yet only one being exists. "Are you sure? All who enter here come through the Sandman, and once you enter you never leave."

No trace of remorse or pity colors the voice. Its matter-of-fact tone only adds to the icicles forming beneath my skin, creeping into every orifice of my being, piercing my breath. Pain stings my nose as I inhale. I swallow the frigid air, uncertain of my answer. Am I alive?

More laughter filters the air as I wince in relief, the grip of my fingers on my arm awakening screams from my nerves.

"I'm not dead." I let the words drift through the silence. "I'm chosen."

Silence and stench are my only answers. The soul returns to the darkness, the clatter of retreating heels the only disturbance. I follow the sound until it stops.

Exit night. Enter light. I shut my eyes to avoid the blindness. Where am I now? I've never come this far. The antiseptic odor entering my nostrils confirms what my eyes see--a hospital room, too small for the bustle of activity within it. The beeping of the monitor is the only clear sound. Straight lines run across the screen. A doctor hovers over the body, defibrillator paddles in hand. He moves, and I recognize the face on the bed. It is the same soul I encountered only moments ago. Dying. The musky odor of fresh demise has not overpowered my senses yet. Perhaps there is hope for this one.

Sobs break through the muffled sound barrier. Dead. The doctor puts the paddles back and talks to the clock. A small figure shrinks just beyond the new aroma in the room. Against my will, I move towards her. Compassion cleaves to my chest and shortens my breath with its irresistible pull, and I wrap my arms around her. Young. She is too young to be touched by mortality.

Oh Death! Why do you stalk me? What can I do to be rid of you?

Still she sniffles, ignoring my presence, not returning the comfort offered. She is lost.

"Where will you go?" I see only my silhouette in her blank eyes. "Can you even hear me?" Of course she can't. I am here yet not here. Am I dreaming again, or did I never wake?

A chill breeze carries an odor of spoil my way. I face whatever--no, whoever--stands there. "What do you want from me?" Desperation's ugliness taints my voice.

"Care for her." The dead voice holds no echo in its plea, the malice of our earlier conversation gone. "She has no one. You are her only hope."

"Yet you accuse me of stalking Death.  Why must I care for her?"

"You are chosen." The soul withers away before I can respond.

Chosen. Just like I said. But why me? Why must my heart beat different from others? Why must her fate lie in my hands? Another thought shreds the questions away. Is she... could she be my salvation? In saving her, am I saving myself?

Impossible. I am dark, she is light. To save my soul is to lose hers. Innocence is not a sacrifice I will make. My heart beats a cadence of defeat to Death. Why should I need saving? Why must I hover this line between life and death when my heart beats strong?

My replacement heart... someone else's innocence snuffed too early. The Sandman holds no discrimination in the souls he steals for Death. I know. He still clutches mine. I refuse to let go. I am not ready.

The child cries, her face long, and heartache scars her eyes. I embrace her before I realize she still can't see or feel me. How am I to care for her from this limbo of Never Neverland?

Awaken, a breeze whispers, rustling my hair.

"I am awake," I shout as if it matters, though no one will hear me. "I am alive!"

My voice stabs the silence. It echoes with a remorse I don't understand. Sadness oppresses me. Sniffles. My emotions are not my own. How is that possible? How can she be here with me?

No! I forbid it! The Sandman will not claim another innocent soul. I shall embrace the darkness, let it swallow me whole in one fell swoop. Return to the devil what he claimed long ago--my heart.

Lavender, honeysuckle, freshness all permeate the air. Innocence. The sobbing stops as warmth surrounds me. The child folds herself into my embrace, her tiny hands locking together in the small of my back. A vise grip crushes my chest.

"No! Send her back! It's me you want."

Silence. Putrefaction overpowers the innocence. Heels clatter against the pavement. Death's stench nears.

"You are not ready yet," a new soul says in passing. It does not stop, and the clatter fades as abruptly as it started.

Soft padding echoes from the walls. Another soul stops in front of me. "Care for her," it says, pointing to the child hovering above. "She needs guidance. Care for her!"

The soul departs and leaves me to the darkness. I eye the child again, suspended in the air. She's waiting. She has not crossed the threshold yet. The Sandman has yet to claim her. There's still time.

"Take me instead!"

Laughter answers my plea. "You cannot take her place. No one can. She was mine long before she existed."

Care for her intrudes a silent plea from the black depths. "I care for her. I will take her place. I am ready." I tremble, but my voice holds firm. I am not ready, but how do you prepare for Death in the first place? "You've had me longer."

"I'll have you both. This you do not understand. You cannot take her place. Your place here is already determined as is hers."

"Then take me first. Let her live." Pressure against my windpipe chokes me. I swallow my words. The pressure eases, and I breathe once more.

"It's not your time. You must finish your journey. You've yet to reach Never Neverland." This comes softly, remorsefully.

"My journey? Is it not enough I am always here?"

"No."

The stench fades. The child disappears. I am alone in the darkness. A light appears in the far distance, an invitation I refuse to accept. I turn my back to the light and walk in the opposite direction. Something squishes beneath my feet, but I cannot see. I step aside only to smash something else.

"Please stop."

No one stands before me.

"Look down."

Nothing. I close my eyes and wait for them to adjust.

"Please don't step on me."

As I crack an eye open, a round silhouette darkens the pavement. My jaw drops as my mind whirls. How can this be? How is it possible?

A sea of heads spreads across the pavement, some smashed to the ground, while others remain upright, and murmur "murderer" amongst themselves. Twin pools of blood stain the ground where I stepped. Four lifeless eyes stare up at me. To continue on this course would bring certain annihilation to those imprisoned here.

The heads cry in unison, "Murderer!"

"There is a path, you know." The head before my feet speaks again. "You have to find it, though some of us welcome the release you bring."

"Murderer!" seeps up from the ground with such fervor my ears weep. The vise grip tightens in my chest again. I inhale, then release with precision, concentrating on calming the throbs beating against my chest.

"I am not a murderer."

"You killed them." The voice holds no malice, only fact.

"I didn't mean to. I meant to save them, save all of you." A moan escapes my throat unbidden.

"You cannot save us. Choose your path wisely, and murder no more."

The voice fades as the asphalt rises, a tide rushing in to drown the heads, and clears a path for me. Tears flow as I move forward, and "I'm sorry" slips from my lips as I pass the now quiet heads. Darkness deepens the farther I go, and for the first time, fear seizes me.

Shallow air stings my throat, choking me with the rotten musk of the too-long dead. The hair on my nape stands at attention, and icy fingers stroke my spine. I dare not stop, yet I dare not move. With each new step I take, teeth gnash and snap louder until it is the only sound in my head. The blight switches direction, moving from my left to my right. Heat blasts any exposed skin. I stretch my arms out and then pull them back in, then back out, then in. Do I want to know what stalks me? How far will it follow me? My instincts scream for me to turn around and run back to the light, but if I do... no! I must empty my head. Innocence will not lose because I fear.

What of your own innocence?

Again, that voice. The determined soul commandeering my sacrifice. "Care for her," it said. Now it questions my decision?

"My innocence is spent. I have lived."

Snarls greet me. I quiver.

You are not ready.

"Doesn't matter. I am here."

Teeth snap the air, too close to my face. Growls answer as the heat rises. I tremble again.

Will you face the beast?

An unwanted tear slips from my eye. I have no answer.

Will you face the beast?  The soul insists again.

My body spasms from the blast of heat. My knees shake, and I struggle to remain upright.

Will you face the Beast?!

A whimper is my only response.

Aha haha! Coward! You are not ready. The voice fades with laughter.

A child's sobs replace the voice. Care for her weaves an earworm through my mind. I search for her, but she escapes sight. Chosen echoes through the silence.

You must face the beast.

Another sob.

You must face the Beast!

More sobs. I realize they are mine.

The voice softens. It's the only way.

The voice increases in volume. It's the only way! Will you face the beast?

A heartbeat.

Will you face the Beast? You MUST face the BEAST!

"I will face the beast!" Courage hides within my wail. Blood scours my face, and my heart leaps to my throat. "I will face the beast!"

The air stills. The pavement burns through the soles of my shoes. The darkness swallows me. Stench rises from any direction, someone's trash left to rot too long. I know why I am here. I know how I got here.

I never left.

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# Phoenix Rising

There were fifteen pictures left and spare flashbulbs in her pocket. The rumor of a phoenix sighting had drawn a lot of local interest. Determined to make her mark in history, Joyce set off to gather proof.

She busied herself finding the best location in the abandoned house. The house itself was a small, one room, box-shaped abode. The broken windows were covered with boards. The paint peeled from the walls both inside and out. A coating of dust covered the wood floor except for one spot.  The phoenix would rise here. She needed the right lighting for her shot. Slivers of sunlight slipped through two holes in the roof, making a perfect spot to set up the tripod.

Joyce leaned back to survey her work. The camera crowned the tripod and angled perfectly towards the spot. She sat down behind it and waited. Research told her it would not happen before sunset, so she settled in for the wait. Unease crept over her as she thought of sitting alone in the darkened house, but excitement eventually banished her discomfort. Besides, she didn't feel like she was alone. The time approached. Her bones told her it was about to happen.

A tentative foot stretched towards the cleared section as if testing. It landed firm and the other soon joined it. A few more steps and she stood in the clearing. A hum resonated from her throat and she spun, dancing and spinning endlessly. The fingers of her left hand twitched every few seconds, in careful precision. A flash of light filled the room, banishing the shadows for a few seconds. Her eyes closed as a smile stretched across her face. Her body tingled as if it had come to life for the first time. Tears moistened her eyes.

Still Joyce spun. Dancing. Spinning.

She did not stop even after feathers replaced her skin. She danced even as the flames erupted, surrounding her whole body. The gentle hum turned to a squawk. Feathers glowed brightly, the fire expanding, illuminating. Her wings fluttered briefly carrying her to the ceiling as one last flash lit the room, and the fire died. She tumbled back to earth, fresh ashes joining past ones, the only sign of her rebirth.

~*~

OLIVIA SET HER CAMERA down to pick up the one she'd just found. The Town Journal had sent her to capture images of the old house for historical purposes. To her it was just an old house and held no significance, but the job paid, and she needed the work. No one told her someone else had already been here though. Why would they leave their camera and tripod behind? The battery had died, and she didn't open it. She grabbed a battery pack from her bag and attached it to the camera.

She snapped a few more pictures with her own camera while she waited for the other to charge. The ashes in the center of the room under the direct splash of sunlight filtering through the holes in the roof drew Olivia's attention. Why no rain had rinsed them away amazed her. Maybe the old guy was right, and the house held some important place in history. She busied herself investigating every nook and cranny; her flash went off as she left no corner unviewed. Before she knew it, she had caught everything worth seeing and some things unimportant, too. She sat down on the aged wooden floor and scanned through the images. She lingered over the image of the ashes, The floor under them remained pristine with no signs of aging or charring. No signs of firewood or kindling lay anywhere nearby. The closest thing to kindling appeared in the form of a newspaper clipping chucked away in a corner. She hadn't noticed it until now, thanks to the picture.

The Greatest Sighting Ever Seen! the headline read. Her eyes skimmed the article until the word phoenix flashed before them. "Every 5 years, the legend of the phoenix arises. Until now, no one ever discussed where our state bird originated from. It wasn't until Godfrey Bishop discovered it during his exploration of the old Hammish house. The history surrounding the house says it belonged to an old witch once burned at the stake during the witch hunt of 1692. According to legend, her body disappeared in the flames. A phoenix emerged in her place and disappeared into the house. Now every lustrum, 5 days before Halloween, the phoenix is reborn. We have yet to gather proof to answer the questions burning in our minds. Is the phoenix really the witch? Is she reincarnated with each rebirth? If so, what does she return as? Inquiring minds want to know."

"Yes, inquiring minds do want to know. You got that right!" Olivia said aloud. She glanced at the article again. It was five years and three days ago. Today was October 26, 2018. She moved to the old camera on a hunch. A small green light blinked from its face. A smile broke her cheeks as she turned it on and viewed the images. At first, they were the same as hers--an empty corner here, the rusty sink over there--but then they changed. Where empty space had been, fire raged. A young woman stepped into the midst of the fire, moving in a macabre dance as her body changed. Feathers emerged where skin used to be. A long elegant beak replaced her lips. A long harsh cackle erupted from the fire before the bird rose from the flames. The fire extinguished as fast as it had started, and the pile of ashes lay bigger than it was before. A small date flashed in the lower right corner: October 26, 2013.

Olivia dropped the camera as shock ran through her body. She sat paralyzed in front of the tripod. Her eyes darted back and forth, straining at the corners to see whatever could be behind her head. Nothing moved, silence reigned, yet the hair on her nape refused to lie down. Her breathing intensified as the last of the sunlight crawled away from the roof. Was she imagining the cackles breaking the silence?

A tentative foot stretched towards the cleared section as if testing. It landed firm and the other soon joined it. A few more steps and she stood in the clearing. A hum resonated from her throat and she spun, dancing and spinning non-stop. The fingers of her left hand twitched every few seconds, in careful precision. A flash of light filled the room, banishing the shadows for a few seconds. Her eyes closed as a smile stretched across her face. Her body tingled as if it had come to life for the first time. Tears moistened her eyes. Still Olivia kept spinning.

She continued even as feathers replaced her skin. She swirled as the flames erupted, surrounding her whole body. A gentle squawk replaced her hum. Feathers sparked as the fire expanded. Fluttering wings carried her to the ceiling as one last flash lit the room, and the fire died. She tumbled back to earth, fresh ashes joining past ones, the only sign of her rebirth.

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# A Bloody Good Meal

"Such a lovely place you have here, Alton. You and Sylvia have outdone yourselves in decorating. Why haven't you invited us over sooner?" Alton's mother, Judith, said as she let her white glove slide along the furniture.

Alton picked up his mother's gloved hand and kissed the back as Sylvia looked on. "It wasn't time. It was all we could do to be ready for the holidays."

As he released Judith's hand, Sylvia took it and led her into a formal living room where an eight-foot tree spanned an entire wall. Decorated beautifully in blood reds, creams, and gold, its still, clear lights gave off a soft glow. It drew Judith instantly, and she touched the ornaments one by one, a gasp of delight at the macabre leaving her breathless. She pulled one such ornament off the tree and examined it. A smile lit her somber face as she sniffed the crusted blood on the end of the finger. It wore a diamond set in white gold on its center. She turned it and twisted it, delighting in the small prisms of the captured light flickering on the surrounding walls.

"This is delightful," she said, licking another appendage after removing it from the tree. "Oh! And fresh, too!"

"Yes," Sylvia quipped, "and so much better than chocolate!" She removed another ornament from the tree and handed it to Judith before leading her away. "You must see the cellar. It's to die for!"

A secret smile passed between Sylvia and Alton as they led Judith forward through a small but thick wooden door at the end of a dark hallway. Everything in their house was dark, much like the haunted mansion they were trying to replicate. They had even gone to the trouble of installing stone walls over the regular ones, making it look more like a European castle than anyone expected. Almost every room had a different theme though the color scheme remained the same. Everything was black and crimson, with either silver or gold accents. Judith's eyes shone as she passed each room. She was proud of what her son had accomplished.

Going through the door led down another hallway, this one even darker and built of stone, unlike the other parts of the house. It was cold, too, adding to the illusion of creepiness that taunted Judith as she walked. Her smile never left her face as her excitement grew. A tasty aroma filled the air and she knew she was in for a treat. Her lips tingled in anticipation. Her eye teeth lengthened hastily. Impatience clouded her face as they came to another door. Sylvia brought out a large key chain bearing only one large antique black key. It fit the lock and turned easily enough, and the door opened with a groan. The space beyond the door was dark, but Sylvia lit a lamp. With a large sweeping gesture, Alton invited Judith to proceed.

"Mother, please, a countess always goes first," he said. She patted his cheek as she passed. Her nostrils flared, her sinuses overwhelmed with all the scents. Her eyes closed even as her lips moved further upwards until her fangs touched her bottom lip.

Sylvia pulled a small curtain aside, revealing the cool metal bars of a cage. Trapped within it were several people of various ages and sizes, all wearing the same fright on their faces. She grinned wickedly as she moved toward the lock, the single black key in hand. Judith moved closer.

"Our holiday leftovers," Alton said, his own fangs leaving small droplets of blood along his bottom lip.

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# A Cry in the Night

The wolf mother wallpaper is peeling in corners, as old as the house around it. And like the house, the room and its secrets have been abandoned, its overgrown yard a trap for stray baseballs smacked from the vacant lot across the street. No one remembers who lived there anymore.

The house remembers though.

On moonless nights, the sound of a baby's crying comes from within. The cry would carry through the night, leaving neighbors shivering in their beds. The cry is shrill, urgent, and unchanging in its pitch, unnerving even the strongest of hearts. None understand it. No one can escape it. Not one is brave enough to find it.

The wolf mother slides from the wall, a silent figure crawling through time and space. She creeps on all fours up the decrepit staircase, her watchful eye on the dangling chandelier as she passes underneath it. Louder comes the cry that urges her up the steps, regard for her own safety forgotten. Lingering at the top stair, she judges the distance of the hole between stair and floor, balancing her weight as she leaps. Her hind feet break more of the flooring away as she lands harder than she expected. She dismisses the thought that she might not return as the cry fills the air again. She steps forward, following the scent only she can detect.

Down the long dust-coated hall she runs, paying no mind to the gray walls on either side of her. To the left she turns, the increasing volume of the cries guiding her. At the end she climbs, her forepaws scratching against the wall. Another cry, more urgent now, vibrates under her touch. She turns, running back the way she came. She circles in the open hallway, gathering all her strength and runs, her speed never decreasing, until the wall crumbles down around her stunned body laid out on the floor.

The wolf mother rises to a sit, shakes her mane, and startles as another cry cuts through the air. She knows she is close now and stands, her legs wobbling, still woozy from the crash, her nose in the air. She waits with nostrils flaring and then takes off when she catches the scent. There, in the corner, hidden in shadow, she finds the crib, and within it, the babe. Its mouth is open, its scream silent, its eyes frozen. She nudges her nose through the bars, opens her mouth, and gives it a gentle lick. The babe reaches out, touches her nose. It raises on its legs, and climbs from the crib onto her back. It pulls her fur savagely, and she howls, adding a chill to the night the neighbors will never forget.

A crack of light appears in the window, telling her the night is almost over. She must hurry back to the wall now, taking her new child with her, until the next phase of the moon arrives.

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# The Strangest Thing of All

If you wanted to know anything about anybody in this town, I had the scoop. Old Hattie Clay suggested otherwise, but that old coot hasn't left her rocker in nigh on seven years now. The only thing I didn't know about was this house and its new occupants. I was hell bent on fixing that.

It all began with a fire. One day, the house was a charred shell, then the next day it disappeared. The singed blades of grass around the house had faded away and filled in the vacant spot; a right pleasurable sight after Old Brother Abrams and his family met their maker that night. I reckoned firefighters had leveled the house afterwards, and no one bothered to rebuild. No one had any interest in buying the property, either, despite the For Sale sign displayed on the lot. Out-of-towners often drifted in like tumbleweeds blowing across a ghost town to check out the property before they returned to their fancy cars and high-tailed it back out. It's as if the land claimed its own essence, and the aura was not pleasant.

I reckoned that lot would stay empty forever, but I was wrong. I never even realize somebody bought it until the earth opened and concrete spit forth out of the blue one day. Every day upon my walk thereafter, something else had happened. The wood supports stood like silent soldiers for a couple days, and then the walls popped up. Wasn't too long after that the frame of a new house stood where the old house had been. It was uncanny how much the new house looked like the old one. Of all the possible home designs, the new owner chose the same layout, the same ranch style, and even the same number of windows, which was four. When the builders finished, even the aluminum siding was the same greyish-blue shade. The big bay window's location was the only notable difference. Instead of facing the street like it did before, it now faced the back of the lot. There weren't any windows in the front of the house, and that was the strangest thing of all.

Moving day finally arrived. Two long U-Haul trucks drove through town. Everyone stopped what they were doing and watched for as long as there was something to see. They didn't watch long considering the town was so small, and the house was just down Main Street on the right. A small car followed the moving trucks, a tiny blip on the road compared to the trucks. I saw two heads in the car but didn't get a good look at its occupants. That would happen soon enough, I reckoned.

The next couple days it rained non-stop, as if the sky mourned the dead and the dying. I hated that kind of rain. The humidity oppressed, the droplets not even cool enough to give a nosy walker like me some relief.

I ducked into the bakery for a moment. It wouldn't look right to show up without a welcoming gift. And since I didn't know what kind of people they were, I decided on a fresh loaf of Mrs. Sessom's sweet bread. I never met nobody that didn't like sweet bread. Armed with my gift, I set to walking and cleared the distance between the store and the house quicker than I thought to.

A silver compact parked neatly in the dusty driveway. Realizing they hadn't paved it yet put a smile on my face.  I reckoned it was a stroke of bad luck or something since no one's ever paved that land. I moved on to the small stepping concrete stones that led around the house. There was no door on the front side of the house, either, which made it even stranger. What kind of people don't have a front door? Anyway, I moseyed on around to the backside of the house and got a pleasant surprise. They'd started a garden. They planted bushes on each side of the doorstep with roses so red you'd think someone bled on them.

I stepped on the stoop ready to knock when a cold wind passed through me. The icy air had me at a standstill, catching my breath. The supper I ate before walking churned in my gut and threatened to spew itself all over those rose bushes. I started thinking about taking a peek through one of those windows when the door opened. The finest looking woman I ever laid eyes on stood in the doorway, her long black hair flowing like a silk gown around her tanned skin and violet sari.

"Yes? Can I help you?"

I almost didn't catch it she spoke so soft. Her voice had a musical quality.

"Hiya. My name's Ebenezer Cooper, but you can call me Coop. Most everyone else does." I extended my hand in greeting, but she didn't accept it. I stared at my hand for a minute thinking there was something on it, but it was clean. Another flag flapped in the red wind of my brain. "I just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood and leave a little offering of neighborly good will."

Her face lit up at the mention of an offering, and this time when I held the bread out, she took my hand.

"So nice of you to stop by like this. Thank you."

She didn't remove the bread from my grip, but she didn't release my hand either. Instead, she tugged on it, leading me inside the house. My curiosity got the better of me, and I followed. I never did see inside the old house, either. A distinct feeling that these neighbors would keep to themselves rattled my old bones a little. Never cared much for unsociable neighbors.

There wasn't much to see in the dim light. No furniture, but thick curtains covered the windows. The air had that new car smell about it. Maybe the dark, and the newness, and the need for privacy creeped me out. The hair rose on the back of my neck, but I told myself it was silly. I'm a grown man. I had no reason to let those old horror movies of my youth get me all scared and riled up. The woman moved across the wall and opened the curtains of the big bay window, letting more light shine into the room.

"Please pardon the dust. My husband and I are still moving in and unpacking. I did not expect visitors so soon." This time she came closer, holding her own hand out in greeting. "I am Yvette. Welcome to my little home." She bowed in a grand sweeping gesture I didn't know what to make of. When she rose, I caught a hint of ice edging her warm brown eyes.

Now that she'd let light in, she moved behind me and closed the door. I saw around the room better now. The light from the window illuminated paintings from all over the world hung neatly on each golden wall like an art museum. Most contained dangerous animals in their natural habitat--a lion on the African Safari here, a Great White in Caribbean blue there. Some of them shimmered in the light, making leaves move here, a bear walk there. Someone painted one so well the man within it looked alive. I stopped and stared into it when it looked like he moved. I reckoned my surprise didn't go unnoticed because Yvette grinned and drew my attention to another print. A white tiger rested on emerald grass just outside a jungle. A bush waved in a twinkle of the light.

"You like this?"

I nodded. I always did have a tender spot for cats, even wild ones like this.

"Such exquisite work. I say it is my favorite." She opened the curtain a little wider. "Come closer. Tell me if you can see the color of the tiger's eyes. They are amazing."

I obliged, standing so close I almost touched it with my nose. The cerulean blue of the tiger's eyes penetrated mine. Its face grew larger the longer I looked at it, and I stepped back. Yvette stood right behind me, blocking any further retreat.

"Can you see the hunter in his soul, Ebenezer? All he needs is prey."

As she pushed me towards the painting, I realized it was a trap. The tiger's face had indeed gotten larger. The surrounding room shrank. The lighting changed from the sparkle of the midday sun to the subdued green of the jungle. I heard a roar so realistic, if I weren't standing on the carpet, I would have believed it was real.

"Open your eyes," she said, her voice a distant whisper.

I realized my eyes were closed. I opened them slowly and screamed.

~*~

EVERY NOW AND AGAIN, someone stepped on the porch. The walls vibrated as their feet landed on the stoop. The soft swoosh of the curtain opening crossed the jungle like a breeze. The heat from the sudden burst of light made my heart beat faster. I hated the voices, knowing it will only make the tiger restless. I've come to hate the sickly aroma of the fresh sweet bread they always brought with them. If I left my spot in this tree or yell out in warning, the tiger will find me. Helpless, I stared between the fronds of my palm tree as one after another they fell to the woman's spell and faded into a painting of their own. Darkness vanquished the light, and hope died once more.

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# Mary Jane

I fell in love my thirteenth summer. She was as sassy as she was spunky, a gorgeous mess of a girl who insisted on doing things her way. There wasn't a rule in existence she wouldn't break, and sometimes fate turned around and gave her a good smack on her backside. She'd stand back up, brush herself off and laugh, then turn around and break another rule. I fell in love with her the first time I laid eyes on her, standing behind me with rebellion written on her beautiful face, and a real cigarette held expertly between her long fingers. From my lofty position on a pair of stilts, I couldn't tell if she'd actually lit it, but the plume of smoke that billowed from her lips was convincing enough. I don't think she ever noticed me watching her, which is a good thing, because if she did, I'd never have this story to tell.

My uncle Mike traveled all around the world. Dad said he was an investor, but although no one ever told me, I knew the truth. He was a circus clown. I soothed my imagination by convincing myself that he was the highest-paid clown to ever work a circus and let it go. Well, until that summer anyway. Uncle Mike came home defeated and jobless, a pair of stilts his only reminder of the life he'd enjoyed. Many changes happened that summer, including my sister befriending this girl.

Mary Jane, Betty said her name was. She moved into town after my uncle did. I didn't see her much as she kept to herself, daring the outdoors only when my sister made her go. That day, however, she needed no prodding. She was already in the field when my sister and I showed up. I'd sneaked out with Uncle Mike's stilts (and Uncle Mike. It was my dad who didn't approve) and had taken hesitant steps when I saw her. She never turned to see what Betty was looking at, not even when the ambulance came and carted me away after I fell. No one else remembers seeing Mary Jane there, either. Since I'd taken a great fall and gained a concussion, they said she was a figment of my imagination, but Betty knew better.

"She was there, Bobby," Betty whispered in my ear.

Mary Jane was there when I got out of the hospital, too, though she never took any interest in me, only Betty. She would tell Betty the craziest stories about how she met this or another person long dead and buried. Betty would come home with a shine in her eyes and words on her tongue.

"Wouldn't it be fun to have tea with Genghis Khan? Or fly the skies with Amelia Earhart? To sit in a booth beside Lincoln and catch a show?" she would say, followed by laughter when everyone's heads would shake in disbelief. "What if we could talk to Martin Luther King or Christopher Columbus?"

It wasn't until she talked about Papaw, dead ten years, that Dad grew concerned.

"Papaw says hi, daddy. He says not to worry about your business. It will grow, and the customers will return," she'd say. Business was always something my dad would have never told us and it bothered him that someone else did.

One day, he decided to investigate.

"Who is Mary Jane, Betty?" he asked her one morning.

"She's my friend," she said.

"Where does she live?"

"On the other side of town by the railroad tracks."

My dad's eyebrows hunched over, one eye squinted shut, and his finger scraped against his skull.

"On the other side of town by the railroad tracks you say?"

Betty's head bobbed. "That's what I said."

"I don't remember nobody moving into Warner's old place. It's been empty since he died three years ago."

"Welp, Pop, you're wrong. She lives there with her mom and grandfather. I visit every day," she said, sassily, ratting herself out.

My dad swung around so fast I thought he would smack her. Not only did he hate the word "welp", but the other side of town was off limits. Sarah Anne, the girl next door, wandered over there one day and never came home. They found her body in the stream a short time later. Someone had taken liberties with her that shouldn't have happened. No one knew why she had gone over there. Until Mary Jane moved in, there were no children there.

"You will not go over there anymore, young lady, unless it is with an adult." He grabbed her. Her head bounced as he shook her. Purple marks on her arms after he released her told a story of their own. He was afraid.

"But Pop, nothing ever happens. The old lady that runs the shoe store always watches."

My dad's eyes rolled toward the ceiling. His complexion went through several shades of red before deciding on crimson. "The old lady who runs the shoe store is blind, Betty!"

Betty just blinked in response. She was tighter with Mary Jane than I thought. She'd never risked Dad's wrath before. Her lips wiggled back and forth as if they trapped words within them, but she said nothing.

"Let's go have a visit with Mary Jane, shall we?" Dad towered over Betty now, his hand outstretched to her. It was not a question. It was a demand. "You can show me the way."

Dad turned. "Are you coming with us, Bobby?"

Another demand, not a question, his tone intimated.

"Sure," I said. I wanted to see Mary Jane again, anyway.

We piled into the old rusted pickup truck Dad only used for town business. He drove down main street, passing all the shops, their various colored signs and advertisements blurring into one as we went. The truck coughed its way over the railroad track and stopped in a haze of smoke in front of a small wooden house. Two dark and dirty windows adorned the front. One of them was missing a shutter, and the remaining one dangled in such a way a slight gust of wind would send it sailing to the ground. The screen door hung crookedly in the doorway. The corner of the stair beneath the door caught a large piece of mesh matching the shape of the hole in the door. Dad didn't waste time. He knocked on the door, waited two seconds before opening it. The space inside was dark. Pinpricks of lights left eerie trails of light from the windows. Dust bunnies danced in the light. The place looked, for all intents and purposes, deserted.

"This is the house Mary Jane lives in?" Dad questioned Betty. She nodded quietly.

"They must not be home right now," she whispered. Layers of dust called her a liar. No one had lived here in a long time. Dad swiped a finger across the table.

"I don't think they've ever been here, Betty." He took her arms in his hands again, mindless of the bruises he'd left behind a short while ago. He looked into her sienna eyes. "Stop lying, Betty. Where did you hear about my business?"

"Mary Jane told me Papaw said it."

He shook Betty again, rougher this time. "Tell me the truth!"

"I am! She said Papaw told her!"

He shook her again, so I stepped between them.

"Dad! Stop! I've seen her, too!"

He released his grip on Betty. Tears formed in his eyes as she moved away from him, her steps wobbling like a drunkard. "No one lives here unless they are squatters. How would squatters know my business?"

Betty whispered from the dark corner where she'd taken refuge. "Papaw told her."

"Papaw is dead!" Dad shouted. The small house shook in his rage. "He can't talk to anyone!"

"But she said-- "

"Your friend is a liar, a teller of stories, a master of fables," Dad said, the anger leaving his voice. "She's given you more imagination than you've ever had on your own, but still, I need to find her. I must find out how she got my personal information."

Dad pulled Betty and me back into the truck, started it up, turned around, and drove back into the town. He had Betty tell anyone who would listen what Mary Jane looked like. No one knew who she was talking about or had seen a beautiful girl with long white hair and sultry lips. Mary Jane did not exist.

The old woman's shoe store was the last place we stopped. I'd never liked it here because her one milky white eye scared me. She was as nice as a glass of sweet tea on a hot day, but I couldn't shake the eye. I busied myself investigating shoes to avoid looking at her.

"Well, hello, Betty!" the old woman said. No one had introduced us, but she knew.

Dad groaned. A blind woman couldn't know how a person looked. It didn't occur to him she could recognize Betty's scent.

Betty moved to the old woman and wrapped small her arms around the old woman's waist. "Hello, Ms. Esther."

"What brings you here today?"

"My Pop's looking for Mary Jane. Have you seen her?"

The old woman smiled. "Not today."

Dad startled. "Not today? Where does she live?"

The old woman nodded. "She lives in the old cemetery behind the Baptist church."

"Do you-" Dad stopped mid-sentence as her words caught up with him. "In the old cemetery? Oh! You mean her dad is the new caretaker!"

She grabbed his hand. "No, that is not what I mean. I mean she lives in the old cemetery. She's been dead for twenty-odd years."

Betty stepped forward and tugged on Dad's hand. Her eyes glowed as she spoke, "I told you Papaw told her."

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# The Skeptic

I hadn't meant to do it. I'd promised myself that I wouldn't touch anything and leave the house exactly as it was when I entered it. Everybody said something haunted the old Bosworth house, but I was a cynic. I'd never met a ghost, and the metaphysical is my specialty. Jackson Paranormal Pruitt is my name. Ghost hunting and evil being banishing is my game. Yes, you heard me correctly. Paranormal is my legal middle name. My beautiful mother, God rest her soul, was a medium.  As I grew up, I would watch as her eyes rolled back into her head and she channeled her inner being. She'd utter something in a deep voice I'd recognize, and quickly "became" another. It was great fun, and I enjoyed the show and the profits of her meticulous acting. People came from all around the county regularly to pay her to connect with a lost loved one.

Now, here I am in the old Bosworth mansion, with an agenda to prove the rumors false. The sun hadn't quite set yet, and I'd already kicked over a photographer's light. Why there was a photographer's light in the house in the first place was a giant question mark. I intended to find an answer. I had to work swiftly, however, as dusk was quickly approaching. I'd brought no candles with me, only a small flashlight, with almost dead batteries. The mansion was large, and I still had a lot of territory to cover before nightfall. I left the light where it fell and moved on, never dreaming that it would play a role in testing my belief system later.

Darkness arrived. I used my flashlight sparingly, not willing to trust the batteries I'd found in an old dust covered foot locker on the second floor. I occupied a corner of the room where I'd kicked the light over because it was the most familiar with a clear exit should I need one. It was a precautionary measure, one I took with every place I visited, but never needed. I wouldn't need it tonight, either, but it soothed the anxiety in my gut knowing it was there.

I had just closed my eyes to rest when I heard the scuffle of feet across the floor. Aiming my light out, I caught the red glow of a rat's eye in its beam and shuddered. Where there was one, there were more, and I'd never been fond of rodents of any shape or size. This rat was rather large for its species. I shivered, regretting my decision to investigate this house. I stood up, preparing to leave when a metal scraping on wood sound stopped me. When I flashed my light around the room, nothing seemed amiss. Just as I'd suspected though, another rat, just as large, had joined the first. The hair on my body stood on end. I closed my eyes again, willing them to adjust to the darkness. More scuffling on the floor sent goosebumps over my skin. Four rats gathered where there had been one. The scraping sound grew louder this time too, but when something brushed across my leg, I'd had enough. I dropped my flashlight and ran towards the exit.

Two steps into my run, I fell flat on my face. My knee took the brunt of my fall, landing on whatever tripped me. Sticky warmth on my forehead told me I bled, and within seconds, razor-sharp teeth clamped down on other areas of broken flesh. As the rats closed in and began their feasting, and the edges of eternal darkness crept over my conscience, it became crystal clear I'd tripped over the photographer's light, and the rats had moved it.

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# Off with His Head

Crimson filled Norman's vision. How could his parents do this to him again? How many times has he told them to stay out of his room? They never listened. They were too busy setting one new rule after another to care about what he said.

And they say that parents do these things because they love you.

Love doesn't invade privacy. Love doesn't set so many rules you fail to meet expectations. Yet, this was exactly what his parents did. They went through his room regularly even though they found nothing. When they found nothing, they devised a new rule as if he needed punishment, anyway. Maybe he did. Wasn't he a huge mistake from the get-go?

Norman dumped his backpack on his bed and investigated his room. His parents always removed something, with a bogus claim on how it's damaging to his health, or his education, or intelligence. He needed to find whatever it was. Even though he kept his room in a state of disarray, he knew where everything was, what should be where, and never forgot a single thing. He moved papers around his desk, found a short story scribbled on a piece of notebook paper here, and an uncompleted verse there to distract him. Finally, the naked wood of his desktop revealed itself. Satisfied, he put all the papers back and moved to his dresser.

One by one, he pulled open the dresser drawers. Most of them held treasures rather than clothing, but sometimes a sock or t-shirt popped up. Mother had buried them in there once when she'd cleaned his room. That was another matter, altogether--cleaning his room. Mother vacuumed, Father dusted, together they emptied his drawers and filled them with clean clothes. Father organized his papers, determining on his own what was trash and what wasn't, then put them in a neat stack on the corner of his desk. Mother made his bed and cleared the clothes from underneath it. They filled the hangers in his closet with clothes and lined his shoes up like the Queen's foot guards on the floor.

When they finished their cleaning, Norman was worse off than he was before. He took twice as long to get ready for school because nothing was where he put it. By the orderly state of his drawers, today proved to be a "cleaning" day.

Gah! He hated getting into his parents heads to figure out where they put his stuff. It was bad enough they let their bodies wander wherever they pleased, but to leave their heads on the kitchen counter... he never had company, not that he had any friends to invite.

Norman scanned his room, looking for anything he might have missed. Was his secret floorboard slightly raised? He opened it. The spell book--gone! His eyes flickered to the vent on the wall above his bed. Had he left it slightly askew last night when he put the eyes in there? He scrambled on his bed and pulled the grate from the wall. Gone! "Dammit! Now I'll never get rid of them!" He closed his eyes, his lips moving silently. Fifteen years of searching for a way to end his parents' immortal reign undone in one night.

He slammed his bedroom door and made his way to the kitchen. He stepped around the eight-seating table with ease. He pushed a chair in and trained his eyes on the counter in front of him. Mother had decorated the house in fall colors. She had scattered ceramic pumpkins of all shapes and sizes throughout the main rooms of the house. The counter was no exception. It angered him to find his parents' heads positioned between two theatrically carved pumpkins. The soft glow of the lit candles within the pumpkins did nothing to soothe him, especially since his parents faced the opposite direction.

"How dare you!" He smashed his hand on the counter. The squishy sound Mother's head made as she turned around further enraged him.

"What did we do now?" The words filtered from her cherry red lips saccharin and innocent.

Norman reached a hand out, ready to strike her when Father's body came up behind him and grabbed his arm. He jabbed back with his elbow, meeting that soft space between Father's ribs, and Father stumbled backwards. His voice, stern and commanding, floated from the countertop.

"You do not smack your mother! You will show her respect."

Norman growled.  Spittle flew from his mouth. "Oh, shut up! I've had enough of you both. You've screwed me for the last time. We all know what you took!" His fist slammed on the counter again, hard enough to make his parents' heads jump. "Where are the eyes? Where's my book? I want them back now!"

Mother's body appeared in the kitchen. Her pristine white apron looked freshly ironed; she never had a wrinkle out of place. Her red heels clicked across the tile as she joined them at the counter. Perfectly manicured red fingernails picked up her head and twisted it back on her body. A smug smile planted itself between her ears. One hand ventured down into her apron pocket. He knew by the little flutters of movement inside the pocket she hid something. He knew what it was. The smirk plastered on Mother's face pushed him over the edge.

"Give them--" he shrieked for air.  Father sneaked up behind him and trapped him in a choke-hold. His father's other hand flashed in the farthest reach of Norman's peripheral vision. It gripped something large. He struggled in vain. Mother pulled the eyes and his book from her pocket and set them down on the counter in front of him, just beyond his reach. Her laugh chilled him to the bone. Father's arm swung down with an axe and separated Norman's head from his neck. Mother's head shook, her tongue clicking in dismay as his body dropped to the floor and floundered around for a few minutes.

Mother picked up Norman's head and looked him in the eyes. "Oh son, did you really think you had the power to stop us with a dead man's eyes? Do you really think we would have survived all this time if that spell actually worked?"

She laughed in his face. "Did you really think we lived in ignorant bliss, unaware of that loose board in your bedroom floor or the vent cover that doesn't close right? We didn't lose our heads yesterday, you know. There's only one way to truly kill the headless..." A cackle emerged from her larynx. She slammed his head to the floor and stomped on it. A tear fell into the mangled wreckage of his brain. "Oh, Norman. It's such a shame. We had such high hopes for you, too."

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# Send in the Clowns

"Look, Mike!" Kay said as she picked up the music box. It had two long drawers on its front side, and doors that opened on each side. She pulled on the lid but it wouldn't budge. She flipped it over, awestruck that such a perfect item was being sold in an antique store. She carried it to the counter and set it down. The shopkeeper smiled at Kay then shrunk when she saw the music box. Kay pulled on the lid again to show the woman the lid wouldn't open.

"Hath ballerina inthide, playth Thend in the Clownth," she said, the gap from her missing front teeth causing a lisp.

"Why won't it open?"

"Thpethial. Will open for you at home and thet it in the perfect plathe." The shopkeeper's eyes avoided looking directly at the music box. Kay noticed but said nothing about it. She turned the music box around in her hands again.

"Well, how much is it?"

"For you, one dollar."

"For one dollar, I suppose it doesn't really matter if the top ever opens or not. You've got a deal." She passed the box to Mike and handed the woman a crisp, new bill.

"It will work. Alwayth do," the woman sighed as she opened the cash register. "Enjoy. It yourth now." She pointed to a small sign in front of the register. No returns, it said in bold black print. The woman looked at a watch that didn't exist on her wrist and walked to the door. She flipped the sign from open to close. "You go now. Thore clothed."

Once outside, Mike and Kay turned around and looked at the shop with confusion. "But, it's the middle of the afternoon. The sign says it's open until four." Mike said.

The shopkeeper shrugged her shoulders through the glass and brought pinched fingers to her lips before turning and walking away.

"At least we got this treasure before she closed up. C'mon. Let's go home." Kay said, ignoring the unease infiltrating her belly.

"And if it doesn't open?" Mike ran a thumb across the top of the box in his arms.

Kay cast a long glance over her shoulder. "She said it would when we got it home and put it in the perfect place. I know exactly where to put it." She beamed. She rubbed her palms together in anticipation.

Kay held the box on her lap the entire car ride home. She found herself unable to stop caressing it. The wood warmed underneath her fingertips. By the time they reached their house, she knew every crack and imperfection, not that there were many, on it by heart.

"So where will you put it?" Mike held the door for Kay as they entered her apartment.

"In the only spot it belongs in! Smack center on the mantle." She moved gracefully and set the box on the shelf under the big TV. She stepped back and admired it. "See? Perfect!"

Mike didn't have an opinion either way. Her apartment, her jewelry box, her choice. He admitted it looked perfect right where it was. "Will it open?"

Kay shared a smile and a small shrug and tried to lift the lid. It refused to open.

"Aw, darlin, I'm sorry." Mike put an arm around her shoulders. She shrugged him off.

"It was only a dollar. Probably because she knew it wouldn't open."

"Probably why she closed up so fast afterwards, too."

"That's a good possibility. It's still a great conversation piece on the mantel though. We've already stood around talking about it longer than any other object in this place."

"That's true." Mike stepped closer and wrapped Kay in an embrace. "I can think of other things to discuss at this moment." To emphasize his point, he dipped his head and nuzzled her neck.

She stepped away from his embrace. She didn't know why but she wasn't in the mood. She laughed to hide the awkwardness and touched the jewelry box again. "Do you think it will play anyway?"

Mike picked it up and put it down just as quickly, shaking his hand as if he'd been shocked. "Damn!"

Kay laughed again. "What happened?"

"It- it- it bit me."

Kay smirked. "It bit you? It's a wooden box, Mike." She picked it up and shook it in front of his face. "Look, no teeth."

"I know it has no teeth, but I don't know how else to explain it." He examined his hand and held it up. "Look! Explain that, then."

Kay took his hand. She turned it this way and that way. She opened his palm and flipped his hand over. Her grunt shared all the disgust she felt. "If I didn't know better, I'd say it's a rather nice hand. Too bad it's attached to a brain-dead body."

Mike's eyes widened. His mouth opened and closed again. His nostrils flared. He pointed to his wrist, "You don't see that mark?"

She studied his hand again and then dropped it and stepped away. "No, I don't. There's nothing there."

He pointed to the side of his hand where the meat sat ahead of the bone. He could see the bite marks clear as day. They were small, but they were there. "I can't believe you can't see them. They are right there."

She shoved his hand away. "Well, I don't see anything. Maybe you should go home."

"Whoa. Where did that come from? A minute ago we were ready to make love."

"No, you were ready. I want to hear 'Send in the Clowns'."

As if on cue, the music box popped open and the ballerina jerked twice as the final strains of the song played.

"What the hell?" Mike stumbled backwards.

Kay picked the box up and twisted the key on the back until it stopped. A few notes sounded, and the ballerina did a twist before she came to a jerky halt. The music paused, let out a long off-key note, and silenced. Kay's eyebrows buried her eyes, and her forehead creased. She turned the key again, but it wouldn't move. She tapped on the front of the box and nothing happened. Disappointment weaved across her face, and Mike stepped closer.

"Damn. What a tease."

Kay turned fast, hand raised as if to smack him.

"Not you. The box."

Kay remained unconvinced. "You broke it." Accusation poisoned her words. "You fix it."

Mike shook his head. He should have left when she told him to. He hated to part angry, especially when he had no clue what happened. He also knew he wanted nothing to do with that box. "All I did was pick it up. How could I have broken it?"

"When you dropped it, you must have damaged it. All I know is it was working and now it's not."

Mike grumbled. He touched the box with the tip of his index finger. Nothing happened. He picked it up. Nothing happened. He walked over to the couch holding it. Nothing happened. His shoulders relaxed as he sat down and set the box on the coffee table. A couple more notes ground out. He studied the box, turning it around, to the left side, to the right side, even tipping it to see the bottom. All that did was produce a few more forlorn notes. "Honestly Kay, I don't think I broke it. I think it was already broken." He tried to say it gently, but the facts remained. The box was broken. He pushed the box aside and picked up his cellphone. Within minutes, the opening strains of 'Send in the Clowns' poured from his speaker.

Kay turned on him, a rabid dog in heat. "What are you doing?" Her nostrils flared, and her chest rose and fell rapidly.

"You said you wanted to hear the song, but the music box is broken, so I pulled it up on my phone."

She clenched her jaw and released it. Fire blazed from her eyes. She grabbed his phone from him and threw it across the room. It bounced off a wall and landed on the floor with a satisfying crack. The music stopped.

"Like your cellphone could ever imitate the sound of a jewelry box! Idiot!" She picked up the jewelry box from the table, put it back on the mantle, and shut the lid.

Mike quickly recovered from his shock and closed his mouth. He bit his jaw together to prevent himself from saying anything he would regret later. He counted down from ten as he rose from the couch. When his breathing had smoothed out, he said, "So, we're fighting over a jewelry box? Really? What the hell is the matter with you?"

"Me? What the hell is the matter with you?"

Mike stepped back. He wasn't sure what had happened or why Kay was so upset all the sudden. "Nothing, Kay. I'm sorry. You're right. I should go home." He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek before he walked out the door.

~*~

THE OPENING CHORDS of an old song awoke Kay. "Wha..." A yawn split her face in two. She sat up from the couch and rubbed her cheek. The pillow had left long indentions on it and the corner of her lip was still moist from her drool. She blinked rapidly, and then squinched her eyes closed and open. Her abdomen stretched as her arms folded around her head. Another yawn escaped as more music filtered from somewhere in the room halting and jauntily. "Oh! The music box," she said, when her brain registered the tune. "Finally!"

Her eyes traveled to the mantel, but it was empty. There on the coffee table, the jewelry box sat open, its tiny ballerina pirouetting with pride. She looked at the mantel again, then at the table. But I thought...

"Didn't I put that on the mantel last night? Did I move it in my sleep?"

As if in answer, the music grew stronger, and Kay smiled, her confusion forgotten. She closed her eyes and let the music fill her essence. She loved this song. Lyrics she thought long forgotten entered her mind. Visions of standing on someone's front lawn and Mike suspended in mid-air sent a chill down her back. She knew they had parted angry, but she still loved him. It was supposed to be good for a relationship to fight occasionally, wasn't it? Her throat swallowed a nugget of doubt. She picked up her cellphone, noted it was still early enough in the evening to call him, opened her recent calls folder, and hit the call button.

Kay's foot tapped as empty air continued from the earpiece.

"Please hold while the party you are trying to reach is located," the automated voice requested.

Kay sighed, worry etching its way across her forehead. She whispered into the phone. "Where are you?"

"Please hold while the party you are trying to reach is located."

She reached out and touched the ballerina. It stopped turning for a minute, even though the music didn't. Lyrics filled her mind again, an earworm she'd normally appreciate, but right now stressed her out more. "Where is he?" She asked the jewelry box.

Send in the clowns.

She hung up and dialed again, her finger absently tracing the shell of the box.

"Please wait while the party you are trying to reach is located."

More silence. Her fingers pressed around the filigreed edges of the box.

Send in the clowns.

The vision floated in front of her eyes again. Her white Keds offered a stark contrast to the green grass beneath them as Mike hanged still as a windless day, in front of her. Tears streaked a trail in the dirt on his face, his open eyes pleading with her. His lips moved, but she couldn't understand what he said.

"Please hold while the party you are trying to reach... Ring... Hello?"

Kay didn't recognize the voice on the other end. She pulled her phone from her ear and double checked the number. "Who's this?"

"My name is Claire."

Kay waited but when Claire offered no further information, she pushed for more. "Um, Claire? Why do you have Michael Cochran's phone?"

"Oh, is that his name?" Still Claire offered no information. "We couldn't find an ID on him."

"Yes. Why do you have his phone?" She wanted to scream into the mouthpiece but held back. She needed this woman to tell her what was going on.

"Well, who are you, I should probably ask first," Claire clipped back. Other voices filtered their way through the earpiece, and Kay strained to hear them.

"One-fifty over one hundred."

"He's not responding."

Kay's hand trembled. "Claire, what's wrong with Mike?"

"Are you family?"

"I am his fiancee." Exasperation made her words sharper than she intended them to be.

"I see. All I can tell you at this moment is that they are taking him to Mercy Hospital. I'm sorry I can't tell you more." Claire's voice started to fade.

"Wait! Who is taking him to Mercy?"

Claire laughed. Cold fingers walked up Kay's spine. "The clowns. They sent in the clowns."

"The clowns? Why would they send clowns?" Kay's free hand clutched her heart. She looked at the jewelry box, the dancer still turning, the music still flowing.

"Clowns? Who said clowns? I said the EMTs. Someone called an ambulance. I only picked up the phone because it was ringing and thought whoever was on the line should know."

Kay's chest heaved in relief. She paused long enough to catch her breath. "Thank you. Please let them know I'll meet them there." She didn't wait for a response before she hung up again. She snatched her keys from the hook by her door and ran to her car, the jewelry box in her hand. She tossed the box onto the passenger seat, swallowed the lump in her throat, and swiped at her eyes. Oh Mike! What happened to you?

Every scenario rippled through her imagination as she drove. Mike's lower extremities severed from his upper half. His neck gushing blood from an unknown cause. Guts hanging out from a brutal stabbing. A hole in Mike's head that didn't belong there from a bullet. Gunpowder residue on his hand. An empty prescription bottle laying on the ground, little blue pills surrounding it. A wet bathroom floor and blood splattered on the edge of the bathtub. The front end of his car crumpled into the driver's seat, his body mangled and broken, his face a mess of blood and scars. A fallen ladder and his broken body beside it. His bike twisted under the tire of a car. The music from the box ebbed and flowed through each scenario, and a clown appeared with each strain she thought she heard. When the clowns started waving at her, she trembled.

Stop it, Kay! She admonished herself. A screech of tires and a blaring horn broke into her thoughts. The realization she had almost caused an accident made her slow down. She shifted her focus to the road ahead of her, pleased to find she had almost arrived at the hospital. She pulled into the parking garage and found a vacant space. She shut off her engine, then closed her eyes. Center yourself. She lifted her right arm and drew her hand down the air in front of her face, her fingers slowly closing against each other and swooping backwards to draw out the negative energy. Now breathe. When her breathing calmed and her emotions could be held in check, she exited her car and ran into the emergency department. She stopped at the security desk.

"Michael Cochran's room, please?" She eyed the man in front of her, noting his crisply ironed white uniform shirt and black pants. Kind eyes gazed back at her underneath a mop of graying hair before they settled on the screen in front of him.

"Michael Cochran has just arrived. He has not been cleared for visitors yet."

Frustration chased tears from her eyes. She squeezed them shut and inhaled. She released her breath slowly, her clenched fists relaxing. "Is there somewhere close to his room I can wait? I have no idea what happened to him, and I would like to talk to the doctor."

The kind eyes looked her over again before returning to the screen in front of him. "He's in the south trauma wing. There is another waiting room there. It's left unattended for the most part since most people prefer not to hang around that ward."

Kay started to ask for directions when his words caught up to her. "Unattended? People prefer not to hang around that ward?" She paused, uncertain if she wanted an answer. "Why?"

His eyes turned into pools of pity. "Well, there's a lot of death there." His voice gentle as his hand stretched out and cupped her shoulder.

There's a lot of death there. There's a lot of--

"No!" She interrupted her own thoughts as liquid salt cascaded from her eyes. "Do you know when I will be able to see him or talk to the doctor?"

"Just a minute." He picked up the hand-held radio and held it up to his ear. She heard mumblings between his breaks of talking. "I'm sorry. I don't have an answer to that question. Perhaps the nurses can give you more information."

He pointed to a small enclosed desk behind him. Balloons of every color decorated the glass and a banner on the wall behind it declared "Happy Birthday." A head full of dark curls bent behind the desk, the owner hidden from view. She stepped the short distance and cleared her throat. The dark curls bobbed as the woman looked up.

"Can I help you?"

"I hope so. The security guard said you would be able to." Saying it out loud gave Kay a little hope. Her finger reached out and playfully poked the red balloon closest to her.

"Okay, what do you need help with?" The nurse looked her over. "Are you in need of a doctor?"

"Yes."

The nurse nodded her head and held up a clipboard covered by a small stack of paper. "Fill this out, and we will get to you as soon as we can."

Kay pushed it away. "No, you don't understand. I don't need to see a doctor for me. It's for someone else."

The nurse pushed the clipboard back to Kay. "You still have to fill out the paperwork."

"Ugh! He's already back there!" Kay's fists balled up and it was all she could do to keep from slamming them into the glass. "No one will tell me what's happening to my fiance!"

Heads turned towards the desk. She had created a scene, but she didn't care. She needed answers, and she needed them now. The nurse rose from her chair quickly, her hands raised forward to hush and soothe at the same time. The security guard stepped towards them, but the nurse shooed him back.

"Calm down, ma'am. Let's start over." The nurse paused and smiled. "Hi. I'm Wanda. Please tell me the name of the person you're here to see, and let's see if we can find some answers for you."

"My fiance, Michael Cochran, is in the south wing. He was brought in by ambulance. I was notified over the phone that he was being brought here, but no one has told me why."

"Okay, that's a good start. Let me see if I can find his chart."

Colors danced from the hallway behind the desk. They flashed in Kay's peripheral vision but remained out of clear sight. She tried to ignore it. Music chimed from the overhead speaker in time with the clacking of the nurse's fingers on the keyboard. The little side glances she stole showed nothing. Must be my imagination seeing clowns everywhere, she decided and trained her focus away from the hall.

"He's here. He's been prepped by the on-call nurse. The doctor will be in to see him soon."

"Okay, thank you. Can you tell me why he is here?"

Wanda looked at the chart again. "He was in an accident."

Kay's hand lifted and caressed her temple. She closed her eyes to fight the tears filling them. "An accident? How, where?"

A loud burst of music interrupted the quietness of the reception area. Send in the Clowns was not the song she heard with her ears, but the one she heard in her head.

"I don't have that information here, unfortunately. I can tell you he was admitted and arrived by ambulance." The nurse tossed Kay a soft glance. "Oh, and he's been put on a vent."

"On a vent? Can I see him now?" Kay's hands flipped over themselves, gripping fists and releasing them, switching back and forth.

"Let me call the nurses' station in ICU. One moment." She pulled a cell phone back to her ear and turned away. The music grabbed Kay's attention again. High tendrils of musical chords walked up her spine and left ice in her veins.

Sorry, my dear. There should be clowns. Send in the clowns.

"Sorry, my dear," the nurse echoed. "You are welcome to go down to the south wing and sit with him, yes. The doctor can fill you in when you get there." The nurse searched Kay's face. "Are you all right?"

Kay shook her head. "No, I'm not, but that's unimportant. You said I can see him?"

The nurse smiled. It was a pleasant break in her otherwise homely face. "I did. Do you know the way?"

Kay looked down the hallway. Whatever had caught her attention before had left, but the feeling it had given her remained. "No, but I'm sure I can figure it out." She pointed at the signs.

"Those won't direct you to where you need to be. Let me get you an escort. One minute, please." The nurse stood up and stepped down the hall and emerged with a different security guard.

"This way, ma'am," the security guard said, pointing down the hallway where she'd seen the colors dancing from the corner of her eye.

Icicles tingled her spine. She stopped for a moment and turned to the nurse. "Who's birthday?"

"Birthday?" The nurse raised an eyebrow.

Kay pointed to the balloons and the sign.

"Oh that." Wanda guffawed. "We've just never taken it down since someone put it up five years ago. Seems to cheer the place up. Besides, it always someone's birthday around here."

As Kay turned to follow the security guard the nurse said, "And the clowns. There's always a clown."

Kay swallowed hard. "The clowns? Did you say 'clowns?'"

Wanda laughed again. "I did. We've got a couple on hire here." She pointed to the entryway behind them. "Look, there's Simon now."

Indeed, there was a clown making rounds in the waiting room. The one child who sat in there smiled and accepted his small token. She couldn't see what it was until Simon moved away. She gasped. No! It can't be! The child held a miniature ballerina that twirled on a small base. She started to move towards the child when the security guard interrupted her.

"Ma'am, if you're going that way, you need to come now. I can't leave my post unattended much longer." He held his arm out, willing her to follow him.

She turned away from the lobby and followed him. Every few doorways, she thought she caught a glimpse of something colorful--a head full of curly green hair, a shiny red nose, an explosion of primary colors on a satin clown suit--but when she turned her head to look, there was nothing to see.

"Ma'am?"

So engrossed in seeing things that weren't there, Kay didn't notice the guard had stopped and plowed into him.

"Oh sorry!" She hit him with enough force to knock him back a step.

The guard blinked and shifted his shoulders. He extended his arm towards a dark room beside them. "The patient's room, ma' am."

Kay stiffened for a moment as fear ran a finger up her spine. She shook it off and gave the guard a smile. "Thanks."

The guard returned her smile as she entered. "Nurses' station is just down the hall. Press the button on his remote if you need anything."

Kay looked around the small room. Beige walls belied a warmth that wasn't there. A single light shined over Mike's bed, casting an eerie halo around his gauzed head. Little wisps of brown curls peeked out here and there. Almost angelic it appeared. She almost relaxed when her eyes rested on Mike's face. If they hadn't told her it was him in this room, she never would have found him. Half his face was missing. Her eyes darted away to the small table beside him. Impossible! The jewelry box sat unopened on the top. There was no way she had set it down there. She reached into her purse and rummaged through it, but the box wasn't in there. Confusion clouded her face. How did that get there?

She rose, prepared to visit the nurses' station and ask who had left it there, but a soft murmur stopped her. "Mike?"

"He's not going to answer you, dear."

Kay jumped. She hadn't noticed the nurse enter. "What happened to him?"

The nurse wrapped her fingers around Mike's wrist and stared at her watch. When she was done, she patted Mike's chest. "He was in an accident. You know, the human body isn't meant to challenge a truck." She pinched Mike's cheek and smirked. "Is it, Mr. Cochran?" She patted his chest again for emphasis.

Kay gasped. Even if Mike couldn't respond, the nurse needn't be cheeky. "A truck?"

"Indeed. Awful bold our Mr. Cochran is, eh?" The nurse smirked. She rattled his water pitcher and tipped it towards Kay. "You want me to fill it?"

Kay pinched her forehead. "Yes. I mean what if he wakes up and he's thirsty. Of course, you should fill it."

The nurse shook her head. "I'll be right back."

Kay nodded in relief. Something about that nurse made her skin crawl. She'd never met the woman before. Guilt flamed her cheeks. It couldn't be easy working in the "death ward." Maybe the nurse acted the way she did for her own sanity. Right on cue, urgent beeps filled the air. Someone's device went off in another room. Beep! Beep! Beep! It insisted. Heels stomping on linoleum joined in, and hushed whispers carried the tune. Goosebumps exploded on her arms, and she rubbed them together. The heavy air in the room oppressed her. Her eyes searched for a light switch. Maybe a little light would cheer the room up.

The soft padding of feet interrupted her freak-out. "Molly told me to bring you this pitcher of water. I apologize for the delay."

A younger nurse set the pitcher on the tray next to Mike's bed. "I'm Sarah. I'm taking over for Molly." She smiled at Kay before checking on Mike. As she set up her computer to test his vitals, she caught sight of his table.

"Ooo! A music box!"

Kay sat up.

"Does it work?"

"When it wants to."

Sarah placed the cuff on Mike's arm. "Does it have a ballerina inside?"

Before Kay could respond, the lid flipped open and a single note blurted from the box.

"Yes. She's kind of wobbly."

"That just means it's been around for a while. What does it play?"

"Send in the clowns," Kay sang. She gasped and put her hand over her mouth.

If the nurse noticed, she gave no indication. "I always enjoyed that song." She replaced the equipment and shut the screen down. "Everything is as good as can be expected. Can I get you anything?"

Can you take the jewelry box and throw it away? Kay wondered. Even if the nurse did, she had a feeling it would find its way back to her.

"Well, what's wrong with him?"

Sarah sighed, A frown marred her clean complexion. "He's lost a lot of blood and had internal bleeding. They operated, but it's a guessing game now. He'll either recover or he won't. It's my job to keep him comfortable."

Anger and fear propelled Kay from the chair. "A guessing game? Is this what you say to everyone or am I just special?" Sarah flinched. "Can I see the doctor, please?"

Sarah nodded. "That would be best. I'll let him know you're inquiring." She exited the room quietly.

Kay didn't have to wait long. The doctor entered the room within minutes.

"Hello. I'm Dr. Price. I was on my way to check on Mr. Cochran. You are...?" He extended his hand in greeting, but Kay didn't take it.

"I'm Kay, Mike's fiancee. Doctor, I understand Mike was in an accident and he had to have surgery. No one will tell me anything else."

"According to the report, your fiance ran in front of the truck. Fortunately, the truck had just pulled off from a stoplight, so it wasn't going very fast or he would have died on impact. Unfortunately, it was going fast enough to do some serious internal damage. All his ribs are broken, and one punctured his lung. Some of the ribs were shattered, and a fragment of bone entered his heart. The force of the impact also injured his C1 and C2 vertebra. We are watching for a brain bleed and paralysis. Surgery removed the bone fragment from his heart, mended the lung, and reset the vertebra, but we really won't know if it was successful until he wakes up."

Kay wailed. Her head fled into the safety of her hand. "Will he wake up?"

"That's our hope. We will have more answers after the swelling in his brain recedes." He put a hand on Kay's shoulder and caught her eyes with his gentle hazel ones. "We are doing our very best for him."

A tear fell to the floor. Kay nodded and set her hand over his and let it linger for a moment. "Thank you."

"Of course." The doctor turned and checked the chart. As he left the room he said, "I'll keep you updated."

She nodded and swiped at her face, erasing the trail of tears from her cheeks. She stood up and pulled her chair to Mike's bedside. She cupped his hand with hers and closed her eyes. Before she knew it, she'd fallen asleep.

~*~

THE CRISP CLACK OF heels on the tile woke Kay. A police officer strode into the room and settled himself into a chair, notebook and pen in his hand.

"Can I help you?' Kay blinked the sleep from her eyes.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you. I was sent by the sheriff's office to get as much information about the accident from Mr. Cochran as we can. Has he awakened at all?"

Kay squeezed another tear back. "No. Not sure when he will."

The deputy sat back in his chair and pulled out a small bag of honey roasted peanuts. "That's okay. I can wait."

"Do you know what happened?"

"I wasn't first responder, but there's notes. Hang on," he said as he rifled through his small spiral notebook. "Hmm. It's somewhat bizarre really, to be honest. Witnesses say..."

His voice droned on as the scene played out in her head. Mike's arms filled with flowers, a smile plastered on his face as he left the shop. A mop of red hair over a painted white face emerged from the alley. Mike accidentally bumped him as he passed. Eerie jewelry box music played somewhere in the background.

"Hey, watch where you're going!" The clown called, his balled fist raised in the air.

Mike stopped. "You should look both ways before you exit the alley."

"I was here first." The clown raised his other fist.

"Did you not know there is a door here?" Mike stepped forward.

"Everyone knows there's a door there, asshole. Did you not see the alley?" the clown shoved Mike this time, and the flowers fell to the ground in a scattered heap.

Mike yelled and shoved the clown back. The clown stumbled but regained his footing and shoved Mike again. Just as Mike shoved him back, a taller, larger clown emerged from the alley and instantly joined in the foray, shoving Mike hard enough to send his body against the brick building.

The tall clown towered over Mike, pressing his palms into Mike's shoulders. "What's going on, Jibs?"

The other clown dusted himself off. "He hit me when I came out of the alley, Happy. Must have something against clowns."

The taller clown's face pinched in anger. "Oh yeah?" He grabbed a fistful of Mike's shirt and rotated. He let go with a push, and the smaller clown kicked Mike's back. Mike staggered between two cars, a pinball trapped between flippers before stumbling in front of the traffic in the street. Thwack! Mike's body flew backwards with the sound of the semi's angry brakes and whistling air. A car parked ten feet from the shop stopped his hurling. Shattered glass and sickening thud replaced the shrieking brakes. Mike's body folded in on itself as the clowns' sinister laughter overrode all other sounds.

"And that's all we know as of this moment." The cop snapped his notepad shut and stood up. "The weirdest thing in all of this is why he would buy flowers just to throw himself in front of a semi minutes later."

Kay's jaw dropped. "Wait, what? But the clowns-"

"Clowns, ma'am?" He scratched his head. "Weren't no clowns there."

"But you said-"

"Weren't no clowns there." He moved towards the door. "I'm going to grab some coffee. Would you like a cup?"

"Yes, thank you. Cream, no sugar." Kay answered automatically, her mind still digesting the nonexistence of clowns during the accident. She would swear on a Bible he said clowns.

But where are they?

Images of every clown she'd ever seen in her life filled her mind. They lurked behind every thought she had, every word she uttered, and hid within the shadows of the room. She cringed and made herself small in the chair, clutching Mike's hand. "They're out to get us, Mike," she whispered.

"Who's out to get you?" The young nurse had returned. Her voice chased the shadows away and startled Kay.

"Oh, no one." Kay knew if she told Sarah she saw clowns everywhere, she'd be on a gurney headed for the mental health ward. "Just hard to be positive when he's so still and pale."

The nurse pulled a granola bar from her pocket and took a couple bites before putting her gloves on. "Sorry, I'm eating lunch on the run. It's unusually busy here today." She put a hand on Kay's shoulder before she moved to the opposite side of the bed. Sarah picked up the jewelry box and cranked the key on the back. The lid popped open, and the music began without hesitation, in perfect sound. "There, that should brighten the room up some. Don't you think?"

Kay looked at the nurse with wide eyes. The box had never played so clearly before.  She was about to say something when the music paused and an offkey note broke the flow. Sarah picked it up again. It fell from her hand as she clutched her throat. She coughed, rough and thick. Her eyes bulged as her face turned scarlet, then purple. Her index finger jerked towards her throat.

"Oh my god!" Kay jumped up and pressed the nurses' call button, then started pounding on the nurse's back. It didn't work. The nurse's face turned blue, and she fell to the floor. "Someone! Anyone!"

Kay ran into the hallway still screaming. The first nurse met her halfway and followed her to Mike's room. Sarah lay in the same spot, her eyes open and glassy, a pallid blue hue coating her skin. Molly checked her pulse and started compressions. A small piece of plastic flew from her mouth, but she didn't revive.

"She's dead." Molly's eyes accused Kay. "What the hell happened?"

Kay shrunk back as Molly rose, a clown lurking just behind her. Molly reached out and smacked Kay's cheek. "What happened?"

Kay's vision refocused, and the clown disappeared. "She choked. I-I-I don't know CPR. I pushed the button..." Her voice trailed off as the song breached the air.

"Here, sit." Molly pushed the chair underneath Kay and sat her in it gently. "I have to get the coroner up here, but don't move. The cop will need to file a report." Right on cue, the cop entered the room and two cups of coffee fell to the floor.

"There's some bad juju in this place," he muttered. "I'll call it in." Nurse Molly set about removing Sarah from the room as the cop radioed for assistance. Send in the Clowns played in the background, the music growing louder and stronger with each note. "Someone shut that box up! I can't hear on the phone," he snapped. He picked up the jewelry box, intent on closing the lid.

Kay rose from her chair and swung at him, knocking him to the floor. The box landed in a corner upside down. The music continued streaming with the lid closed. He tried to get up, but she stomped on him, forcing him back down. He curled into a fetal position as she kicked him, and she grabbed his gun from the holster.

"Send in the clowns," Kay sang softly as she fired once into the cop's brain.

"Send in the clowns," Kay sang in her normal voice as she fired a second time into Mike's brain.

"Send in the clowns," Kay screamed as she fired a third bullet into Molly's chest as she re-entered the room.

We're here! the clown sang as the bullet entered her brain.

~*~

THE OLD MUSIC BOX SAT in the window, its lid open and the ballerina inside twirling nonstop. "How much for the music box in the window?" Bridget asked the woman behind the counter.

"One dollar," she said.

Bridget grabbed the box from the window and tried to close it. "It won't close."

"It will. Jutht needth to be thet in the perfect plathe." The gap where she had missing teeth made her lisp.

Bridget turned it over, admiring it. Still the ballerina turned, but the music halted. "If the lid would close, it would be worth more than one dollar."

"Maybe, but today ith spethial. Juth for you, right now, one dollar. Tomorrow it be higher. Take it or leave it."

Bridget examined it closer. It was beautiful. She could even see the perfect spot for it in her mind. "Okay, done. I'll take it."

The woman stuck the dollar in her register and ushered Bridget to the door. "Good, thore clothed now, pleathe leave. No returnsth."

Acknowledgments

First and foremost, Stephanie has deep appreciation for Stacy Overby whose poem, Invitation, begins this book. Thank you for writing it for her, for this purpose.

She cannot begin to express my gratitude to JM Ames for writing the forward to this book. Thank you for making this author and her stories sound like bestsellers.

Without the dedication of her alpha and beta readers this collection would still be a first draft. A special shout out to Brandon L. Smith for his willingness to help authors in need. Amanda Lindsay deserves a shout out, too, because without her hard work as Stephanie's Personal Assistant, this book could not have become a reality on schedule. Without the wonderful writing challenges of Indie Ink, Write on Edge, and the Master Class writing prompt, many of these stories would not exist.

Most of all, without you, dear readers, these stories could not come to life. Thank you for your love and support through reading and reviewing her work and enjoying it anyway.

Did you enjoy this book? Stephanie welcomes reviews from her readers. After all, it is the best gift you can give an author.

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# About the Author

 A published author with a knack for twisted tales, Stephanie Ayers is a coffee guzzling, word whispering, world building creative ninja and unicorn living in Ohio disguised as a human. She mothers her children, loves her husband, attends church, and avoids all things housework and zombies. When she isn't doing any of these things, she can be found stretching her creative wings designing book covers, promotional graphics, logos and more.

Sign up for her newsletter by visiting her website here: https://stephanieayersauthor.com

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# More Books by this Author

Til Death Do Us Part

The 13: Tales of Illusory #1

Wings (A Destiny Defined Short)

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Anthologies:

Tales from Our Write Side

Monsters: A TPQ Anthology

Endless Darkness

Flash Fiction: 1x50x100

Ambrosia: A Poetry Anthology

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Coming Soon:

Elven Games: Destiny Defined #1

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